AD  OF 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


JOAN  OF  AEG. 


BY 

J.  S.  FOOTE. 


BOSTON: 

CHARLES  H.  WHITING,  PUBLISHER, 

32  BROMFIELD  STREET. 
I883. 


COPYRIGHTED,  1883 
BY  J.  S.  FOOTE. 


483 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 


O,  WONDROUS  maid  !     Let  him  beware 
Who  calls  thee  witch,  and  e'en  declare 
Himself  thy  judge  on  bended  knees 
Before  that  throne  no  mortal  sees. 

Proud  France,  whose  annals  glory  bore, 

By  factions  torn,  was  France  no  more. 

Her  sunny,  vine-clad,  fruitful  lands 

Had  fallen  into  English  hands ; 

Her  subjects  stood,  from  hour  to  hour, 

In  mortal  fear  of  England's  power ; 

Her  feeble  king  was  king  in  name  ; 

Her  fearless  nobles  lived  in  shame ; 

Her  wretched  peasants,  doomed  to  feel 

The  base,  aristocratic  heel, 

Down-trodden,  plunged,  they  knew  not  where, 

Into  the  depths  of  deep  despair. 

And  here,  as  Hell's  tormenting  darts 

Transfixed  their  fainting,  bleeding  hearts, 

They  cried  with  each  distressing  breath 

For  mercy  from  the  god  of  Death. 


or 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Their  earnest  pray'rs,  their  bitter  cries, 
Unlocked  the  portals  of  the  skies, 
And  from  Jehovah's  throne  above 
Descended  liberty  and  love ; 
For  in  the  greatness  of  His  power 
He  blessed  them  at  this  dreadful  hour. 
He  chose,  not  thunder-bolt  and  hail, 
To  make  the  tyrants  cow'r  and  quail ; 
But,  like  His  dear  and  only  Son, 
He  chose  the  simplest,  weakest  one,  — 
A  little  child  —  a  feeble  spark  — 
Immortal  flame  —  Joan  of  Arc. 
Such  were  the  miseries  and  woes 
That  darkened  France,  when  there  arose, 
To  cause  a  ray  of  light  divine 
Through  the  appalling  gloom  to  shine, 
The  peasant  of  Lorraine,  whose  lance 
Preserved  her  king  and  country  —  France. 
Her  childish  life,  her  sweetest  hours, 
Were  spent  among  the  birds  and  flowers. 
By  these  instructors  she  was  taught, 
And  from  them  views  of  Heaven  caught. 
Her  mother  knew  not  how  to  read, 
But  knew  far  more  :  knew  how  to  plead 
With  Him  above  who  sits  alone 
And  governs  Empires^ from  His  throne. 
So,  with  a  mother's  fervent  zeil, 
The  little  one  was  taught  to  kneel. 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

What  better  training  could  there  be 
To  mould  and  shape  her  destiny 
Than  mother's  fond,  devoted  care 
And  simple,  solemn,  earnest  prayer? 
Now  as  she  reached  her  maiden  state, 
Admiring  youth  at  ev'ry  gate 
Stood  watching  with  those  dreamy  eyes, 
Which  lovers  use  to  win  their  prize, 
For  her  bewitching,  lovely  face 
Which  had  no  equal  in  its  grace. 
But  no ;  her  nature  never  yields 
To  blandishments  which  Cupid  wields. 
Her  ardent  love,  that  love's  desire 
Inspired  by  God's  eternal  fire, 
Burned  for  her  mother,  country,  king, 
For  happiness  that  peace  would  bring. 
While  others  played  without  a  care, 
Her  soul  was  pouring  out  in  prayer. 
Her  new  delights  could  now  be  found 
In  nature's  grandeur,  deep,  profound. 
She  loved  the  mountain,  hill,  and  vale, 
The  sunshine,  shadow,  breeze,  and  gale. 
She  loved  the  brook,  the  lake,  the  sea ; 
She  loved  the  birds  so  light  and  free ; 
She  loved  the  forest,  trees,  and  rocks ; 
She  loved  the  happy,  grazing  flocks ; 
She  loved  the  stars,  the  moon,  the  sun ; 
She  loved  the  flowers  ev'ry  one. 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Her  daily  custom  was  to  go 

And  sit  beneath  the  trees  and  sew. 

This  spot  she  sought  with  great  delight, 

Because  it  brought  within  her  sight 

The  distant  mountain  on  whose  crest 

The  heavy  clouds,  retiring,  rest ; 

The  little  church  where  daily  pray'rs 

Release  her  from  her  sinful  cares ; 

The  clear,  blue  sky  which  seemed  to  tell 

Where  spirits  found  a  place  to  dwell,  — 

This  trio  bound  her  to  the  spot 

As  if  it  were  her  happy  lot 

To  meet  the  angels  here  alone 

And  learn  of  things  unseen,  unknown. 

One  day,  at  noon,  while  waiting  there 

To  meet  her  playmates  of  the  air ; 

While  gazing  into  azure  skies 

A  voice  cried  out :  "  Joan,  arise  ! 

Go  to  thy  king  !     His  crown  restore  ! 

And  make  him  king  of  France  once  more  ! " 

She,  trembling,  on  her  knees,  replied  :" 

"  Forgive  me  !     I  am  young,  untried. 

The  bloody  fight,  the  dying  groans, 

The  sobs,  the  tears,  the  gasping  moans, 

The  awful  scenery  of  death 

That  chills  the  blood,  arrests  the  breath,  — 

From  these  my  timid  soul  would  fly 

And  cry  in  anguish  :  '  How  can  I  ? '" 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

But  soon  there  came  a  reprimand  : 

"  Go  !  child  !     Fear  not !     Tis  my  command  ! 

Proceed  at  once  your  king  to  save 

And  France  to  rescue  from  her  grave  ! 

Fear  not !     For  all  the  saintly  host 

Will  guard  thee  to  the  uttermost !  " 

Now  when  this  summons  died  away 

And  left  the  maiden  to  obey, 

The,  strong  emotions  of  her  mind, 

As  if  in  agony  confined, 

Turned  pale  her  face  and  made  each  nerve 

A  trembling  vassal  fear  to  serve. 

But  still  the  voice  more  strong  and  clear 

Behind  her  back  was  drawing  near. 

"  It  comes  !"  she  cried ;  "yes;  nearer!     Oh! 

What  shall  I  do  ?    Where  shall  I  go  ?  " 

She  looked  around.     There  stood  the  saint 

With  proffered  sword,  without  complaint. 

"  Fear  not !  "  he  said  ;  "  the  saintly  host 

Will  guard  thee  to  the  uttermost." 

Upon  her  trembling  knees  she  fell 

Before  this  mystic  sentinel. 

Then  as  she  knelt  and  upward  gazed 

And  eyes  suffused  with  tears  were  raised 

To  Heaven,  with  one  despairing  cry, 

She  said  :  "  O,  Father  !     Let  me  die  ! " 

But  no ;  her  mission  was  not  done ; 

Nor  were  her  splendid  laurels  won. 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Transcendent  eulogies  unsaid 
Remained  for  her,  the  martyred  dead. 
Then  she  arose  confused,  distressed 
And  sought,  but  sought  in  vain,  for  rest. 
Tormented  by  an  inward  fear 
Of  sinful  disobedience  here, 
She  prayed  that,  in  this  awful  hour, 
She  might  receive  some  guiding  power  • 
^  My  God  !  what  shall  I  do  !     I  pray,   ' 

Shall  I  the  strange  command  obey? 

Direct  me  !  O,  Omniscient  One  ! 

It  is  my  will  that  thine  be  done." 

At  length,  like  some  frail,  tiny  boat 

On  ocean's  waters  set  afloat, 

Or  as  a  ship  without  a  sail 

Before  a  stormy,  wintry  gale 

Storm-tossed  and  wrenched  by  mountain  wave, 

Unharbored,  helmless,  yet  still  brave, 

Seeks  some  unruffled,  peaceful  tide  ' 

Where  sweet  relief  and  joy  abide,  — 

So  she  sought  rest  from  her  alarms 

And  found  it  in  her  mother's  arms. 

But  even  mother's  fond  embrace 

With  tender  love  and  smiling  face, 

Although  they  were  so  long  delayed 

And  sweetly,  too,  they  only  made, 

Her  anxious,  longing,  pray'rful  soul 

Yearn  for  its  aim  beyond  control. 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

What  solace  can  there  be  for  one 
When  conscience  finds  his  work  not  done  1 
Resolved  at  last  to  meet  her  fate,  v 

She  told  her  father,  friends,  and  mate, 
And  soon  report  had  spread  it  far, 
That  Joan  was  to  lead  in  war. 
Some  called  her  crazy ;  others,  mad ; 
Some  dared  to  praise  her  and  be  glad  ; 
Some  called  her  witch,  and  so  desired 
That  she  be  punished,  not  admired. 
All  criticized  that  wondrous  plan 
Which  made  her  sorceress,  or  man. 
Her  aged  father,  much  displeased, 
Declared  his  daughter's  mind  diseased ; 
That  vain  delusions  had  control 
Of  body,  mind,  of  heart  and  soul ; 
And  lifting  up  his  feeble  voice 
He  said  :     "  It  is  my  solemn  choice 
That  she  should  die  this  very  hour, 
Than  serve  that  fatal,  evil  pow'r. 
I  know  I'm  old,  and  childish  too, 
I  know  that  life  is  well  nigh  through, 
I  know  that  death's  dark  waters  flow 
Close  by  my  door  ;  ah  !  yes,  I  know 
That  soon  my  wearied  feet  shall  tread 
The  smoother  pathways  of  the  dead. 
Earth's  brightest  hope  is  my  dear  child, 
My  precio  is  girl,  so  sweet,  so  mild ; 


10  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  solace  of  my  bending  years, 

The  light  that  drives  away  the  tears. 

And  should  I  see  her  now  depart 

To  fight,  O,  God  !  'twould  break  my  heart  1 

No,  no ;  no,  no  ;  this  must  not  be  ! 

She  is  too  dear,  too  dear  to  me  ! 

But  should  she  heed  me  not,  I  swear 

This  base  injustice  I'll  not  bear,  — 

I  vow  to  break  Divine  commands 

And  take  her  life  with  my  own  hands  ! " 

But  father's  threats  and  mother's  tears 

Could  not  subdue  religious  fears  ; 

For  Heaven's  voice  she  must  obey 

Regardless  of  what  others  say. 

At  length  she  found  to  take  her  part 

An  uncle  in  whose  tender  heart 

Sweet  consolation  ever  lives 

To  ease  the  pain  which  sorrow  gives. 

He  took  her  to  his  home  as  nurse 

To  shield  her  from  her  father's  curse. 

Renewed  endeavors  now  she  made 

To  get  the  royal  captain's  aid. 

She  urged  her  uncle  quick  to  fly 

To  Vaucouleurs,  and  there  to  try 

The  captain's  favor  to  obtain, 

Before  she  sought  the  king's  domain. 

Her  uncle  on  his  mission  went 

And  sought  the  captain's  full  consent. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  1 1 

The  captain  smiled  and  said  :     "  Take  care  ; 

The  girl  is  mad;  tell  her  —  beware  ! 

Chastise  her  well  and  send  her  back 

To  mother's  arms  before  the  rack, 

The  scaffold,  stake,  or  prison  bars 

Subdue  her  wild  desire  for  wars." 

Disheartened,  home  her  uncle  turned 

And  bore  the  news,  which  Joan  spurned. 

Resolved  that  cowardly  retreat 

Should  not  her  purposes  defeat ; 

She  cried  :     "  'Tis  Heaven's  high  decree 

That  you  should  now  return  with  me, 

And  we  the  captain  will  implore 

To  give  a  hearing,  if  no  more." 

Her  uncle  on  her  then  bestowed 

The  kind  protection  which  he  owed. 

Clad  in  an  humble  peasant  dress, 

Her  motto  :    "  Peace  and  Righteousness," 

They  then  began  their  tedious  tramp 

To  Vaucouleurs,  the  captain's  camp. 

Now  when  they  reached  their  journey's  end, 

Though  warmly  welcomed  by  a  friend 

That  chance  and  time  they  might  not  waste, 

They  sought  the  captain's  camp  in  haste. 

Her  earnest  prayer,  her  firm  request, 

Her  strong  desire,  her  high  behest, 

Her  solemn  vow,  her  plea  sincere, 

All  fell  upon  the  captain's  ear. 


12  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

At  length,  in  accents  much  subdued, 

Like  one  with  sympathy  imbued, 

"Speak  on,  my  child,"  he  said,  "but  know 

'Tis  pity,  and  not  fear  I  show." 

A  silent  pause,  a  sweet  prelude 

To  her  petition  now  ensued, 

And  then  like  one  excelling  man 

With  firmer  voice  she  thus  began  : 

"  Sir  !  in  the  name  of  God,  whose  throne 

O'er  empires,  nations,  worlds  unknown, 

Extends  and  ever  shall  remain 

Till  time's  eternal,  endless  chain 

Revolves  no  more,  —  to  you  I  bring 

This  message  from  Creation's  King  : 

Go  to  your  king  and  him  command 

To  give  no  battle,  till  I  stand 

Equipped  with  God's  eternal  might 

To  put  his  enemy  to  flight. 

He  shall  be  king,  and  France  shall  see 

The  glory  of  his  victory. 

Proceed,  I  say,  for  God  on  High 

With  awful  wrath  commands,  not  I. 

Tell  him  my  duty  will  be  done 

When  he  is  crowned  and  vict'ry  won." 

Thus  spoke  the  maid.     This  great  command 

The  captain  could  not  understand, 

Her  manner  was  of  strange  import, 

Incomprehensible.     The  Court 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  13 

Of  High,  Eternal  Heaven  could  be 
No  more  exact  in  its  decree. 
He  bade  the  maiden  to  withdraw 
That  he  might  seek  advice  at  law ; 
A  strange  emotion  filled  his  mind 
As  if  some  phantom  close  behind 
Pursued  him  with  its  noiseless  tread, 
And  chiding,  haunting,  never  fled. 
Distressed,  he  knew  not  what  to  say, 
So  to  the  clergy  made  his  way ; 
This  holy  council,  which  professed 
Supernal  wisdom,  .thus  addressed 
The  captain  :  "  Sir,  if  you  admit 
That  God  exists  and  rules,  submit 
To  His  Divine  command,  although 
Why  He  so  acts  you  may  not  know. 
Did  he  not  save  the  world  through  man? 
Then  question  not  His  mode  or  plan. 
If  He  should  choose  to  rescue  France 
It  matters  not  who  bears  the  lance." 
This  wise  reply  the  captain  heard, 
But  thought,  of  course,  it  was  absurd. 
The  curate  also  was  employed 
In  priestly  garments  unalloyed. 
He  viewed  the  case  and  could  but  find 
That  God  or  Satan  ruled  her  mind 
And  calling  her,  said  in  this  wise  : 
"Young  maid,  the  captain  you  surprise. 


14  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

If  God  has  called  thee,  heed  the  voice ; 
If  Satan,  woe  be  to  your  choice  !  " 
A  low  obeisance  then  she  made 
And  smiled,  no  longer  now  afraid. 
" 'Tis  God  !  'tis  God  ! "  she  cried  aloud. 
"  France  finds  a  king,  her  foe  a  shroud  !  " 
Back  to  the  captain  then  she  went 
And  said  :  "  Good  sir,  before  mid-Lent 
I  see  the  king  and  tell  him  all, 
Though  on  my  knees  to  him  I  crawl. 
What  God  commands,  dare  not  defy  ! 
Take  me  to  Chinon; —  ask  not  why  ! " 
Two  knights  had  listened  to  the  maid 
And,  deeply  moved,  arose  and  said  : 
"  With  God's  assistance  we  do  swear 
To  take  you  to  the  royal  chair." 
The  captain  then  gave  his  consent 
Although  afraid  he  might  repent. 
The  town  of  Vaucouleurs  obtained 
A  horse  for  Joan,  finely  trained  ; 
Also  a  military  dress, — 
Slight  tokens  of  her  worthiness. 
The  captain  gave  her,  too,  a  sword 
And  sent  her  off  with  friendly  word. 
And  thus  equipped  they  took  their  way 
To  Chinon  without  long  delay. 
Meanwhile  the  king  and  courtiers  armed, 
'Gainst  Joan's  actions  were  alarmed. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  15 

Some  counsellors  with  gestures  wild 

Advised  the  king  to  spurn  the  child, 

As  though  despatched  by  Satan's  will 

To  victimize,  and  hades  fill. 

And  others  urged  at  great  expense 

Of  ev'rything  but  common  sense 

That  all  such  sacreligious  things 

Need  oracle  or  priests,  not  kings. 

The  ladies  of  the  court  were  proud 

To  think  that  France  might  be  allowed 

To  choose  a  savior,  through  God's  plan, 

From  womankind  instead  of  man  ; 

And  so,  elated,  they  believed 

That  Joan  ought  to  be  received. 

Prevailed  upon  at  last  by  fear, 

The  king  replied  :  "  Let  her  appear ! 

But  I  will  put  her  to  a  test 

To  see  if  she  be  cursed  or  blest. 

I  will  this  day  at  court  presume 

The  dress  of  courtiers  to  assume 

And  mingle  with  that  common  throng 

To  which  a  king  does  not  belong. 

Then  let  the  maid  select  her  king 

From  out  this  complex  gathering. 

If  she  be  God-inspired  I  know 

That  through  disguise  my  blood  will  show : 

But  if  inspired  by  Satan,  then 

She  '11  know  me  not  from  other  men." 


1 6  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

This  plan  devised,  the  king  retired 

To  court  in  courtier's  dress  attired. 

The  courtiers,  king,  and  noblemen 

Were  there  in  full  attendance,  when 

Joan  appeared  with  timid  blush 

That  caused  an  unexpected  hush. 

By  pomp,  and  court,  and  dress,  confused 

She  stood  at  first,  as  though  accused 

Of  some  foul  crime  which  called  her  there, 

To  guilty,  or  not  guilty,  swear. 

But  lest  her  aim  they  might  defeat 

And  call  her  an  impostor,  cheat, 

Her  fleeting  courage  she  recalled, 

And  stood  undaunted,  unappalled. 

Among  the  throng  with  timid  glance 

She  sought  her  king  —  the  king  of  France. 

No  king's  apparel  could  she  see 

In  all  that  august  company. 

But  all  at  once,  though  dense  the  crowd, 

She  recognized  the  king  and  bowed. 

And  ere  she  could  lift  up  her  head 

To  call  him  king,  he  calmly  said  : 

"I  am  not  king,  young  maid,  'tis  he 

Who  yonder  stands  ;  select  not  me." 

"I  speak,"  she  said,  "what  I  believe ; 

Thou  art  the  king;  let  none  deceive." 

Then  added  in  a  solemn  voice  : 

"Most  noble  one  of  Heaven's  choice, 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  17 

The  King  of  Kings,  as  best  it  seems, 

Declares  you  shall  be  crowned  at  Rheims 

And  over  France  shall  reign  unharmed 

In  spite  of  your  oppressors  armed. 

And  more  :     God  will  not  me  release 

Till  you  are  crowned  and  France  at  peace." 

These  words  prophetic,  strange,  and  grand 

Stood  king  and  court  as  by  command 

In  £we  of  this  great  Magistrate 

Ordained  by  Heaven's  high  mandate. 

The  king  then  talked  with  her  about 

A  secret  which  put  him  in  doubt, 

As  to  his  proper,  lawful  right 

To  take  the  King's  crown  if  he  might. 

"Am  I,  or  am  I  not,  the  heir 

To  hold  by  right  the  royal  chair? 

Was  Charles  the  Sixth  my  lawful  Sire, 

Or  was  I  born  of  Hell's  desire? 

Pray  tell  me  this,  dispel  my  gloom 

And  save  me  from  eternal  doom." 

The  maid  replied  :  "  Most  worthy  one, 

I  tell  thee  that  thou  art  the  son 

Of  Charles  the  Sixth,  and  God  on  high 

Reveals  it  to  me  from  the  sky. 

Most  gracious  king,  if  thou  wilt  give 

Me  soldiers  thou  shalt  surely  live 

To  see  our  country  safe,  unharmed, 

Thyself  its  King,  thy  foe  disarmed." 


1 8  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Thus  was  the  maid,  severely  tried 

Found  equal  to  the  test  applied. 

Soon  Rumor,  like  a  spark  of  fire 

To  tinder  set,  or  like  a  crier 

Y/hose  business  'tis,  with  hurried  breath. 

To  spread  the  news  of  life  and  death, 

Ran  through  the  town,  o'er  field  and  hill, 

Till  ev'ry  heart  was  made  to  thrill. 

Her  consultation  with  the  chief, 

The  court's  respect  for  her  belief, 

The  knights'  entreaties  strong  but  kind, 

The  people's  clamor,  —  all  combined, 

Made  Joan's  mission  almost  seem 

Like  some  prophetic,  awful  dream 

Which  none  but  gods  could  understand; 

But  which  was  her  Divine  command. 

She  thus  became  a  brilliant  star 

Which  shone  through  blackened  clouds  of  war. 

Excitement  now  became  so  strong 

That  people  round  the  maid  would  throng 

And  make  the  very  air  to  ring 

\Vith  shouts  :  "  God  bless  the  Maid  and  king  !  " 

Some  gave  her  steeds  of  war  superb 

And  taught  her  how  their  might  to  curb ; 

Some  gave  her  swords  which  none  excel, 

And  taught  her  how  to  use  them  well. 

Sustained  by  God,  equipped  by  man, 

She  stood  prepared  to  lead  the  van. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  19 

But,  though  she  had  the  means  and  will 

For  war,  one  thing  was  needed  still. 

This  was  the  king's  consent  to  fight, 

For  France,  for  King,  for  God,  for  Right. 

The  king,  with  anxious  eyes  upraised, 

Walked  back  and  forth  as  if  half-crazed. 

Sweet  sleep  did  not  a  visit  pay, 

So  worried  was  he  night  and  day. 

His^  constant  thought,  his  daily  prayer, 

Were  for  release  from  this  great  care. 

Till  finally  with  firm  resolve 

This  haunting  mystery  to  solve, 

He  told  the  maid  :     "  At  once  prepare 

To  meet  the  Doctors  and  to  swear 

That  you  were  sent  with  sword  and  lance 

To  crown  me  king,  to  rescue  France. 

You  will  be  questioned  close,  severe,  — 

And  if  you  fail  you  shall  appear 

Before  a  bar  of  justice  where 

Its  condemnation  you  shall  bear." 

At  this  decision  Joan  drew 

A  sigh  of  sadness,  for  she  knew 

What  trials  she  must  undergo 

To  learn  what  Doctors  think  they  know. 

But  nerved  to  meet,  at  once,  her  fate, 

She  set  out  for  the  learned  gate. 

In  presence  of  the  Doctors,  she 

First  bowed  with  simple  modesty. 


2O  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  whitened  locks,  the  wrinkled  brows, 
The  measured  steps,  the  stately  bows, 
The  sunken  eyes,  the  beards  of  snow, 
The  aged  shoulders  stooping  low, 
The  awful  mystery  profound, 
Where  knowledge,  wisdom,  skill  abound, 
The  solemn,  tomb-like,  dreadful  air, 
Which  drives  one  almost  to  despair, 
All  met  the  trembling  maiden's  eye,  — 
And  made  her  shrink  with  fear ;  yes,  cry. 
But  all  this  vapory  display 
Which  gives  men  titles,  fades  away, 
When  once  the  light  of  truth  Divine 
Is  made  upon  their  works  to  shine  : 
As  when  men  meet  beyond  death's  veil, 
True  worth,  not  titles,  will  prevail. 
And  thus  in  cold,  unfeeling  tone, 
The  Doctors  quizzed  her,  one  by  one  : 
"Joan,"  said  one,  "if  God  decreed 
That  France  be  saved,  why  does  he  need 
A  victory  on  battlefield 
By  soldiers  armed  with  sword  and  shield? 
If  Sun,  and  Moon,  and  Stars,  and  Earth, 
Just  from  command  received  their  birth, 
Why  does  Jehovah  aid  implore 
From  you,  a  child,  and  nothing  more?  " 
"  Most  honored  sir,  do  I  mistake  ? 
Dispute  makes  wars,  wars  battles  make  ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  21 

Battles  need  soldiers,  soldiers  fight, 

The  fight  gives  vict'ry  to  the  right. 

Who  is  right,  God  alone  decides, 

Hence  victory  with  God  abides." 

Another  said  :  "  Precocious  child, 

Let  not  sanctity  be  defiled ; 

If  you  can  give  no  other  sign 

Of  revelation  called  Divine, 

The  king  indeed  cannot  entrust 

You  with  his  army.     This  you  must 

Remember,  trifle  not  with  things 

Concerning  nations,  crowns,  or  kings." 

"  Most  honored  and  respected  one, 

Through  whom  God's  business  here  is  done, 

'T  is  not  to  you  that  I  am  sent 

To  show  some  sign  of  God's  intent ; 

Take  me,  I  pray,  with  soldiers  few, 

To  Orleans,  and  you  never  knew 

A  grander  sign  than  I  will  show, 

Of  God's  omnipotence  below." 

At  last,  a  third  prophetic  sage 

Stepped  forth,  and  questioned  her  with  rage : 

"  Young,  foolish  child,"  he  said,  with  looks 

Of  sternness,  "  we  consult  our  books, 

And  they  most  rigidly  denounce 

Such  wild  delusions,  and  pronounce 

Tormenting  death  to  one  who  dares 

To  deal  with  such  Satanic  snares. 


22  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Beware  !  lest  this,  your  mighty  strife, 
Should  terminate  your  childish  life." 
The  maid  replied  with  earnest  voice : 
"  The  Book  of  Books  is  my  sweet  choice. 
You  read  the  works  of  man's  device : 
Consult  the  Book  of  Paradise. 
What  I  can  do  myself  is  small  — 
What  I  can  do  through  God,  is  all." 
The  doctors  shook  their  heads,  as  though 
Just  what  to  say  they  did  not  know. 
Confused,  confounded,  they  withdrew 
To  find  out  what  they  really  knew 
Concerning  God's  great  plans  and  acts 
Which  they  were  thought  to  know  as  facts. 
They  felt  that  they  were  humble,  meek, 
That  they  were  men,  and,  like  men,  weak. 
All  points  considered,  they  returned 
Much  wiser,  if  not  better  learned. 
They  answered,  with  a  gracious  nod  : 
"All  things  are  possible  with  God. 
Great  acts  through  mortals  He  performs. 
He  calms  the  winds,  He  quells  the  storms, 
He  rears  the  dead,  the  sick  He  heals, 
He  conquers  nations,  yet  conceals 
All  but  the  instruments  employed  : 
Why,  then,  should  man  be  so  annoyed? 
The  power  of  God  is  better  known, 
When  through  great  weakness  it  is  shown. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  23 

The  child  may  be  an  instrument 

Of  His  all-wise,  supreme  intent." 

Such  verdict,  therefore,  was  returned 

By  this  wise  council  now  adjourned. 

Now,  when  these  words  the  king  had  heard, 

No  more  he  thought  her  plan  absurd. 

Convinced,  the  maiden  he  recalled, 

And  o'er  an  army  her  installed. 

TJius  did  she  see  her  labors  crowned 

With  triumph,  evermore  renowned. 

In  token  of  her  purity, 

In  view  of  her  security, 

An  armor  strong,  of  silver  white, 

With  glist'ning  ornaments  made  bright, 

A  standard  indicating  power, 

'Round  which  was  the  heraldic  flower, 

The  Fleur-de-lis  of  France,  entwined 

In  simple  beauty  rare  to  find ; 

A  rusty  sword,  which  she  foretold 

Was  hidden  in  a  chapd'old 

Near  Chinon,  and  with  crosses  five, 

Was  marked  by  some  one,  when  alive,  — 

As  gifts  on  Joan  were  conferred, 

Except  the  sword  which  she  preferred. 

And  thus  equipped,  she  took  her  place 

As  general,  prepared  to  face 

Her  mortal  foe,  whose  only  aim 

Was  France  to  conquer,  France  to  claim. 


24  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Now,  as  these  soldiers  stood  in  line, 

By  Joan  led,  they  seemed  divine,  — 

As  if  an  angel  had  been  sent 

From  Heaven  with  a  regiment. 

And  thus  made  ready  to  set  out 

For  Orleans,  there  arose  a  shout 

From  crowds,  whose  wild,  exultant  cry 

Resounded  to  the  very  sky  : 

"  Long  live  the  maid  who  goes  to  bring 

Salvation  to  our  land  and  king  !  " 

All  officers,  without  reserve, 

The  king  commanded  to  observe 

Complete  obedience  to  her, 

To  whom  all  things  they  must  refer. 

Subservient  to  God's  High  Throne, 

She  first  began  to  raise  the  tone 

Of  army  morals,  which  she  found 

Were  anything  but  strong  and  sound. 

Cards,  dice,  all  instruments  of  games, 

In  camp  and  town,  were  soon  in  flames. 

And  men  of  God  were  called  to  preach, 

Exhort,  admonish,  and  to  teach. 

Religion,  patriotism,  wars  — 

Those  things  which  indolence  abhors, 

Now  filled  the  army  with  a  zeal, 

Which  hitherto  it  did  not  feel. 

Enthusiasm's  wild  delight 

Put  cowardice  and  fear  to  flight. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  25 

Such  preparation  then  was  given 

To  her  the  Delegate  from  Heaven. 

Thus  ready,  with  majestic  air, 

She  bade  her  leaders  to  prepare 

Their  march  along  the  northern  side 

Of  river  Loire,  till  they  abide 

Near  Orleans,  where  she  bade  them  halt, 

And  wait  the  orders  for  assault. 

On  -Loire's  selected  bank  there  grew 

Dense  forests,  which  dark  shadows  threw 

O'er  England's  forces  stationed  there 

In  secret  service,  to  ensnare 

The  French,  whose  daring  army  might, 

Perchance,  pass  through  by  day  or  night. 

This  secret  force,  in  numbers  large, 

Was  so  arranged  as  to  discharge 

A  most  terrific,  deadly  shower 

Of  arms,  at  danger's  anxious  hour. 

This  filled  the  leaders  with  a  dread, 

To  lead  as  ordered,  and,  instead, 

They  planned  the  maiden  to  deceive, 

That  their  own  fears  they  might  relieve. 

And  so  the  southern  bank  they  chose, 

But  did  not  this  to  her  disclose. 

Three  days  they  marched  with  fierce  desires, 

When  Joan  saw  the  lofty  spires 

Of  Orleans  indistinctly  rise 

Against  the  distant  clouded  skies  ; 


26  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

But  indignation,  righteous,  just, 
O'erwhelmed  her  when  she  found  she  must 
The  river  ford  before  she  could 
Appear  at  Orleans,  if  she  would. 
Deceptive  journey,  well  contrived, 
Thus  made,  thus  failed  ;  for  she  arrived, 
In  spite  of  falsehood  and  deceit, 
At  Orleans  with  her  force  complete. 
Majestic  Orleans,  proud  to  stand 
Beneath  the  banner  of  her  land, 
And  wave  the  Fleur-de-lis  of  France 
Before  great  England's  threatened  lance, 
And  in  her  grander  strains  to  sing 
The  praises  of  her  Nation's  king,  — 
Now,  weakened,  stood  in  doubt  and  fear, 
Expecting  hourly  to  appear 
Besieging  England's  mighty  men, 
To  take  by  storm  the  city,  when, 
Behold  !  the  sounds  of  tramping  feet 
The  startled  ears  of  Orleans  greet ; 
The  guards  cry  out  in  accents  wild  : 
"  An  army  comes,  led  by  a  child  !  " 
The  bells  are  rung ;  the  cannons  roar ; 
The  flags  are  raised  ;  all  fear  is  o'er. 
"  God  bless  the  maid  !  "  the  masses  cry. 
"  God  grant  her  wisdom  from  on  High  ! 
For,  at  this  unexpected  hour, 
His  angel  conies  with  mighty  power." 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  37 

The  long,  exciting,  tedious  tramp 

The  troops  fatigued,  and  they  encamp 

Outside  the  city  limits,  where 

The  night's  refreshment  they  prepare. 

The  evening  shadows  softly  creep 

O'er  tired  nature,  and  sweet  sleep 

The  heavy,  drooping  eyelids  close, 

And  hush  the  lips  in  calm  repose. 

The  next  morn,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Was  heard  the  pealing  rising  gun. 

And  soon  the  camp  was  full  of  life, 

Preparing  for  the  deadly  strife. 

Joan,  with  ardor  most  intense, 

Gave  orders  for  the  grand  defence. 

Details  of  men  were  sent  to  guard 

The  country,  where  the  foe  pressed  hard. 

She,  with  two  hundred  lances  bright, 

That  gleamed  beneath  the  morning  light, 

Advanced  and  entered  Orleans  gate, 

The  English  movements  to  await. 

And  now,  that  she  might  lose  no  time, 

In  language  fearless,  bold,  sublime, 

A  letter  was  despatched  with  speed 

From  Orleans  for  the  king  to  read. 

"  Great  England's  King,"  she  said  ;  "  and  you, 

The  Duke  of  Bedford,  whom  a  few 

Will  dare  proclaim,  with  great  array 

Of  foul  political  display, 


28  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  false  pretensions  showy,  bold, 
The  Regency  of  France  to  hold  ; 
You  Suffolk  of  immortal  fame  ; 
John  Talbot,  too,  an  honored  name  ; 
You  Thomas  Scales,  who  claim  with  pride, 
Lieutenantship,  and  more  beside  ; 
You  archers  straight  and  men-at-arms, 
Who  fill  Orleans  with  great  alarms,  — 
To  all,  I  say,  in  mercy  given, 
Surrender  to  the  King  of  Heaven  ! 
Haste  !  in  the  name  of  God,  to  fly 
To  your  own  country  ere  you  die  ! 
I  am  supported  by  the  rod  \ 

Of  that  eternal,  just,  wise  God, 
Whose  vengeance  you  shall  surely  know, 
Unless  the  flag  of  truce  you  show  ! 
For  with  the  help  of  Him,  I  swear 
To  war  upon  you  everywhere  ! 
Believe  me,  in  this  fearful  hour, 
My  King  shall  give  me  greater  power 
Than  you  can  bring  with  all  the  host 
Of  valiant  men  of  which  you  boast." 
Such  was  the  challenge  which  she  sent 
From  Orleans  for  acknowledgment. 
Derision,  laughter,  jests,  and  jeers, 
Low  mockery,  disgusting  sneers, 
Repulsive,  loathsome,  filthy,  mean, 
Disdainful  language,  most  obscene, 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  29 

In  answer  to  her  challenge  came 

And  justly  made  her  blush  with  shame. 

"  War,  most  destructive,"  she  replies, 

"  Shall  bury  France,  or  France  franchise. 

Come  on  !  and  if  we  first  retreat, 

We  will  ask  mercy  at  your  feet. 

But  if  the  God  of  Hosts  shall  bring 

Us  off  triumphant,  we  will  sing 

Loud  hallelujahs  to  His  name, 

And  echo  will  repeat  the  same." 

He  who  awaits  Jehovah's  word 

Knows  not  what  moment  shall  be  heard 

His  summons  ;  but  unrest,  alarm, 

Ofttimes  forerun,  forewarn,  forearm. 

One  day,  amid  her  sweet  repose, 

When  sleep  her  eyelids  tried  to  close, 

That  she  might  feel  the  sweet  embrace 

Of  dreamland's  calmness,  where  no  trace 

Of  wearied,  worn,  unrestful  feet 

Their  footsteps  left,  her  eyes  to  meet, 

And  that  brief  respite  might  relax 

The  mental  strain  which  would  o'ertax 

Her  mental  9ngine  and  impair 

The  driving  force  secluded  there, 

She  sprang  with  suddenness  of  flight 

Upon  her  feet,  and  with  delight 

And  fear  commingled  shouted :  "  Haste  ! 

Arm  me  !     Arm  me  !     Will  you  make  waste 


30  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Of  time  ?     Daulon  ?     For  now  I  hear 
My  summons,  loud  and  strong  and  clear ; 
To  arms  !     To  arms  !     To  war !     To  fight  I 
Before  the  day  gives  place  to  night ! 
Advance  at  once !  and  fear  forget 
Ere  France's  foundations  are  upset !  " 
Whilst  Daulon  was  attiring  her 
For  war,  a  great  uproar  and  stir 
Was  heard  throughout  both  street  and  lane 
As  if  the  people  were  insane  :  — 
"  The  guards  are  murdered  at  the  gates  !  " 
They  cried,  "  God  save  us  from  the  Fates  !  " 
This  touched  the  maiden  to  the  heart : 
"  O  God  !  "  she  said,  "  let  me  depart ! 
The  blood  of  France  is  flowing  free ; 
A  sight  I  can  not,  will  not  see. 
My  sword  !    My  lance  !    My  horse  !    My  horse  ! 
•  Let  me  not  stay  to  taste  remorse  !  " 
She  mounted  in  great  haste  her  steed, 
Her  standard  seized,  and  at  full  speed 
She  rode  until  the  gates  she  reached 
Where  murdered  guards  in  death  lay  bleached. 
At  this  sad  sight  her  face  partook 
The  pale,  unsightly,  ghastly  look 
On  each  repulsive  corpse  portrayed 
Till  she  seemed  life  in  death  arrayed. 
But  quick  her  full  returning  blood 
Brought  to  her  mind  a  raging  flood 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  31 

Of  indignation  which  abstained 
Not  from  expression  though  constrained. 
The  French  had  tried  to  overthrow 
The  Bastile  of  St.  Loup :    But,  lo, 
She  found  that  they  were  driv'n  back 
By  Talbot,  in  their  first  attack, 
That  they  had  sought  irresolute 
Orleans  with  Talbot  in  pursuit, 
That  guards  who  dared  to  interfere 
Were  murdered  outright  with  the  spear, 
That  consternation,  grief,  and  fright 
Had  valor  put  to  rapid  flight. 
And  thus  their  drooping  courage  fraught 
With  weakness  utterly  unsought, 
In  words  of  love  and  righteousness 
She  rallied  with  great  earnestness  : 
"  Weak  sons  of  France  !     Apostates,  all ! 
In  flight  most  great,  in  valor  small  — 
Your  country's  cry  is  for  defense, 
Your  mother's  anguish  most  intense, 
In  prayer  to  God  each  hour  ascends 
And  to  Him  all  your  acts  commends. 
Your  wives  in  bitter  tears  at  home 
Watch  faithfully  for  peace  to  come 
That  they  may  hear  once  more  the  voice 
Of  him  their  dearest,  sweetest  choice. 
Your  infants  at  their  mother's  breast, 
In  blissful  ignorance  at  rest, 


32  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Your  aged  father's  childish  tears 
Increasing  with  advancing  years ; 
Your  girls  at  play  around  his  feet ; 
Your  sisters  at  the  mercy  seat ; 
Your  fondest  hope,  your  sweetest  joy, 
Your  darling  pride,  your  happy  boy  ; 
O  soldiers  !     Men  !     Will  you  indeed 
Prove  traitors  in  this  hour  of  need  ? 
May  God  forbid  !  awake  !  unite  ! 
And  stand  up  for  your  country's  right !  " 
These  earnest  words  from  Joan's  heart, 
The  influence  they  did  impart 
Recalled  their  fleeting  bravery, 
Their  great  disdain  for  slavery, 
And  caused  each  honest  heart  to  vow 
Allegiance  new,  unbroken  now. 
One's  love  of  country,  when  grown  cold, 
Rekindled,  burns  increased  tenfold. 
Now  with  her  army  thus  inspired, 
And  with  eternal  vengeance  fired, 
She  shouted  to  her  valiarit  van  : 
"  Advance  to  conquer,  man  for  man  !  " 
Then  onward  to  their  foe  they  rushed 
With  fury  of  a  storm  unhushed. 
They  routed  Talbot  and  assailed 
The  fortress  where  he  had  prevailed. 
Hot  was  the  contest  now  pursued 
And  great  the  slaughter  which  ensued. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  33 

Defensive  and  offensive,  both 
Fell  dead,  still  faithful  to  their  oath. 
And  when  the  triumph  was  complete, 
And  Joan  held  the  victor's  seat, 
With  garrison  in  bondage  kept, 
The  tender-hearted  maiden  wept 
To  see  the  wounded  and  the  dead, 
With  no  one  there  a  tear  to  shed. 
What  more  distressing  picture  can 
Present  itself  to  mortal  man 
Than  when  a  soldier  —  foe  or  friend  — 
On  battlefield  meets  his  sad  end  ! 
With  no  kind  word  to  soothe  his  mind, 
With  no  sweet  act  of  any  kind  ; 
But  left  to  bleed,  to  faint,  to  groan, 
To  die  uncomforted,  alone. 
Upon  the  river's  bank  there  stood 
In  Orleans'  haughty  neighborhood 
Four  fortresses  which  had  defied 
The  Maid,  the  king,  and  God  beside. 
Resolved  to  strike  another  blow 
If  signs  of  peace  they  failed  to  show, 
She  made  one  more  attempt  to  spare 
Such  flow  of  blood  and  deep  despair ; 
She  scaled  a  tower's  lofty  height 
And  with  an  arrow's  rapid  flight 
She  shot  a  letter  swift  and  straight 
Within  the  hostile,  guarded  gate ; 


34  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  summoned  them  their  arms  to  burn 

And  promised  mercy  in  return. 

Their  ears  were  deaf,  their  minds  were  set 

And  they  would  not  surrender  yet. 

They  made  the  arrow  quickly  bear 

An  answer  backward  through  the  air. 

She  blushed  on  hearing  these  replies, 

Then  said  :  "  God  knows  that  these  are  lies  t 

Within  three  days  you  shall  repent 

Of  this  foul  message  you  have  sent." 

With  greatest  haste  her  plans  were  made 

These  strongholds  quickly  to  invade. 

Scarce  had  the  Oriental  hue 

Of  dewy  morn  escaped  from  view  ; 

Nor  had  the  sun  his  zenith  cleared 

A  second  time  when  there  appeared 

Opposing  armies,  war  equipped, 

With  spears  and  arrows  sharply  tipped. 

As  cloud  approaching  thunder-cloud, 

With  awful  pace  and  challenge  loud, 

Advances  boldly,  then  recedes 

To  gather  all  the  force  it  needs, — 

So  moved  these  armies,  so  began 

A  more  decisive  battle  than 

Had  yet  been  fought  since  first  the  Maid 

Bore  arms  her  king  and  France  to  aid. 

Now,  back  and  forth,  both  armies  swayed, 

And  little  progress  either  made  ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  35 

So  closely  balanced  were  the  twain, 

That  both  might  hope  triumph  to  gain. 

But  finally  the  weaker  fled, 

Which  threw  defeat  on  Joan's  head. 

She  to  an  island  had  retired, 

From  which  she  saw  all  that  transpired. 

And  when  she  saw  the  French  repulsed 

And  put  to  flight,  she  was  convulsed 

With  shame  ;  and  springing  to  her  boat, 

Which  at  her  service  was  afloat, 

Into  their  very  midst  she  bore 

That  power  which,  had  triumphed  before. 

Her  presence,  voice,  her  standard  bright, 

Her  face  revealing  God  and  Right, 

Electrified  her  feeble  men, 

And  touched  their  hearts  with  pride  again. 

"  Oh  men  !  "  she  said  ;  "  why  falter  now? 

Be  faithful  to  your  solemn  vow  ! 

Come,  follow  me  !  your  steps  retrace  ! 

Nor  dare  your  country's  flag  disgrace  !  " 

Then  back  she  led  her  valiant  band 

And  fired  the  forts  with  her  own  hand 

Great  was  the  terror  and  despair, 

But  greater  was  the  triumph  there  ; 

For  smoking  ashes,  bloody  stones, 

And  broken  swords,  and  skulls,  and  bones, 

And  bodies  mangled  and  half-burned, 

All  trophies  which  the  victor  earned, 


36  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Remained  the  double  tale  to  tell 

Of  triumph  and  defeat  as  well. 

Triumphant  songs  the  army  raised  : 

"  Long  live  the  Maid  !  "  and  "  God  be  praised  ! " 

Her  leaders  thought  that  they  had  gained 

A  full  surrender,  and  refrained 

From  further  action,  till  they  heard 

From  Joan's  lips,  the  burning  word  : 

"  Beware  !     Good  men,  you  may  have  had 

Your  counsellors,  but  they  were  bad. 

Be  ready  ere  to-morrow's  sun 

Begins  his  daily  course  to  run ; 

For  from  his  shining,  golden  car, 

He  shall  behold  more  bloody  war 

Than  yet  the  most  observing  eyes 

Have  witnessed  underneath  our  skies. 

And,  in  this  dreadful,  bloody  strife, 

My  blood  shall  flow ;  perhaps  my  life 

On  wings  invisible  shall  soar 

Beyond  this  vale  forevermore. 

To-morrow  great  Orleans  shall  see 

Her  downfall  or  her  victory ; 

For  on  the  morrow  we  advance, 

With  every  valiant,  trusty  lance, 

Against  the  Bastile  des  Tournelles, 

Which  in  resistance  none  excel. 

Tliis  fort  aggressive  England  calls 

Her  best  defence,  in  trench  and  walls, 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  37 

And,  if  defeated  we  retreat, 
Orleans  shall  bow  at  England's  feet, 
And  France,  beloved  France,  shall  bear 
The  yoke  of  England  in  despair ; 
But,  if  our  banner,  men,  shall  wave 
In  splendid  triumph  o'er  the  brave, 
Then  shall  Orleans  exultant  raise 
Te  Deums  to  the  God  we  praise 
And.  France,  with  banners  high  unfurled, 
Declare  her  glory  to  the  world. 
O,  men  !  the  morrow's  eve  shall  see 
Us  slaves  to  England's  crown,  or  free. 
Let  every  man  his  God  implore 
This  night  for  help,  as  ne'er  before." 
Now,  when  the  lovely  goddess  Morn 
Began  creation  to  adorn, 
To  put  her  sable  sister  night, 
Her  equal  rival  quick  to  flight, 
To  paint  the  skies  with  rosy  hues, 
To  fill  the  air  with  balmy  dews, 
To  burst  the  swelling,  frag'rant  buds, 
To  scatter  sweetness  o'er  in  floods. 
To  break  the  slumbers,  wake  the  song 
Of  forest  chorus,  still  so  long, 
The  simple  child,  the  pious  Maid, 
To  God  her  Helper  sweetly  prayed  : 
"  Dear  Father,  whose  all-seeing  eye 
Creation  scans,  nor  passes  by 


38  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

A  sparrow's  fall  unheeded,  O, 
What  passing  goodness  thou  dost  show  ! 
To  Thee  I  lift  my  feeble  strain, 
And  dearly  hope  'tis  not  in  vain. 
What  I  have  done  that  is  amiss, 
Forgive,  forget,  O  Lord ;  't  is  bliss 
Unqualified,  supreme,  to  know 
That  Thou  hast  pardoned  us  below. 
Thou  art  my  strength,  my  life,  my  all, 
Though  terrors  shake  and  fears  appall. 
For  guidance  I  would  humbly  pray 
Through  the  great  crisis  of  to-day ; 
And  if  this  day  should  be  my  last, 
I  thank  Thee,  Father,  for  the  past, 
For  my  frail  life  so  long  preserved, 
For  all  Thy  mercies  undeserved. 
And  as  my  eyelids  close  in  death, 
My  last  expiring,  fleeting  breath 
Shall  utter  praises  to  Thy  name 
And  Thy  great  goodness  shall  proclaim. 
To  Thee  my  soldiers  I  commend, 
And  ask  that  Thou  wilt  comfort  send 
To  ev'ry  wife,  and  child,  and  friend 
Who  waits  at  home  the  battle's  end. 
Deal  tenderly  with  those  who  weep, 
Be  merciful  to  those  who  sleep 
To  wake  no  more  till  Morn  shall  break, 
And  Thy  Archangel,  flight  shall  take 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  39 

To  open  ev'ry  silent  grave 
To  judge,  to  punish,  or  to  save. 
And  now  once  more,  as  Christ  Thy  Son 
Prayed,  let  me  pray :    Most  Holy  One, 
Our  Father  who  in  Heaven  art, 
Thy  name  be  hallowed  in  each  heart. 
Thy  kingdom  come  ;  Thy  will  be  done 
In  earth  and  Heaven,  both  as  one. 
Our. daily  bread  we  ask  from  Thee 
As  Christ  who  died  on  Calvary. 
Forgive  our  debts  as  we  forgive 
Our  debtors,  Lord,  while  here  we  live, 
And  lead  us  not,  we  humbly  pray, 
Into  temptation's  flow'ry  way. 
Deliver  us  from  'evil  Thou 
Before  whom  we  submissive  bow, 
All  glory,  power,  and  praise  shall  then 
Forever  more  be  Thine.     Amen  ! " 
The  maid's  petition,  Heaven-born, 
Great  beauty  added  to  the  morn, 
And  Art,  however  high  or  great, 
Could  not  its  beauty  imitate. 
While  Joan  prayed  to  God  and  wept, 
The  mighty  fortress  guarded  slept 
Unconscious  of  the  awful  gloom 
That  threatened  its  eternal  doom. 
With  deep  entrenchment,  massive  wall 
The  guarded  Bastile  challenged  all, 


4°  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  safety  seemed  to  find  a  spot 
Where  danger  could  molest  her  not. 
But  ditch,  nor  wall,  nor  work  of  man 
Could  disconcert  the  maiden's  plan. 
While  England's  strongest  fortress  stood 
Unvanquished  and  unstained  with  blood. 
A  few  short  hours  had  passed  away 
And  morn  had  introduced  the  day. 
The  maiden  could  no  longer  wait, 
Her  inward  fears  would  not  abate  : 
She  roused  her  army's  pride  again 
In  words  as  follows  :  "  Valiant  men  ! 
Behold,  I  pray,  yon  fortress  wall  ! 
Shall  it  defy?  or  shall  it  fall? 
Come  on  !  ye  brave  !  and  do  your  best 
And  God  above  will  do  the  rest ! 
If  we  the  Bastile  capture,  oh  ! 
Why  should  we  longer  dread  the  foe  ? 
Now  all  at  once  with  shouts  and  cries 
The  French  rush  forward  to  their  prize ; 
With  one  combined,  tremendous  blow 
They  struck  the  fortress  of  the  foe  ; 
Protected  well  by  wall  and  trench 
And  grand  artillery ;  the  French 
As  fast  as  they  advanced  were  slain 
And  lay  in  heaps  —  sad  prize  to  gain. 
The  horrors  that  were  pictured  there 
Would  equal  Hell's  deep,  dark  despair : 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  41 

The  moans,  the  groans,  the  sobs,  the  sighs, 
The  bloodless  faces,  bloodshot  eyes, 
The  hands  for  mercy  clenched  in  prayer, 
The  cries  their  misery  to  spare,  — 
Would  thrill  the  hardest  heart  with  fears, 
And  dim  the  sternest  eyes  with  tears. 
Some  called  for  mother,  some  for  wife  ; 
Some  prayed  for  help,  and  some  for  life ; 
Some  cursed  this  final,  fatal  morn ; 
Some  cursed  the  day  that  they  were  born ; 
Some  murmured,  filled  with  loyal  pride, 
"  O,  God,  my  country  save,"  and  died  ; 
Some  rolled  in  agony,  then  smiled, 
Submissive,  wordless,  reconciled. 
Oh  !  horrid  scene  of  dreadful  birth  ! 
Oh  !  pandemonium  on  earth  ! 
At  such  great  slaughter  and  distress, 
The  French  became  most  spiritless. 
A  panic  seized  the  multitude, 
And  Fear  ran  off  with  Fortitude. 
Alone  the  maiden  firm  remained 
And  at  their  cowardice  complained ; 
Then  fearless  she  a  ladder  placed 
Against  the  rampart  in  great  haste, 
And,  sword  in  hand,  she  scaled  the  wall,  — 
But  hark  !     A  hiss  —  a  shriek  —  a  fall  — 
And  in  the  ditch  she  gasping  lay 
Her  life-blood  stealing  swift  away. 


42  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

An  arrow  had  been  straightly  aimed, 

Had  pierced  her  neck,  —  surrender  claimed. 

The  English,  thinking  her  by  far 

To  be  the  greatest  prize  in  war, 

Rushed  from  the  fortress  quick  as  thought 

That  she  in  bondage  might  be  brought : 

But  ere  they  could  their  prize  obtain 

The  French  with  all  their  might  and  main, 

Returned  regardless  of  their  fate 

And  rescued  her  inviolate. 

She  soon  recovered  from  her  wound 

Undaunted  and  for  triumph  bound. 

Desirous  that  no  time  be  lost, 

Regardless  of  what  it  might  cost, 

Remounted,  she  her  army  led 

Back  to  the  fortress  and  their  dead, 

"  Behold  !  "  she  said,  "  your  comrades  slain  ! 

Shall  all  this  slaughter  be  in  vain? 

If  valor  only  held  the  place 

Which  fear  possesses,  you  would  face 

More  perils  than  are  here  arrayed 

Nor  be  discouraged,  nor  dismayed." 

The  English,  who  believed  her  dead, 

Supposing  that  her  troops  had  fled, 

Were  struck  with  horror  when  their  eyes 

Beheld  her  form  remounted  rise 

Before  them,  like  some  spirit  sent 

On  restless  wings  of  discontent 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  43 

To  finish  some  great  work  begun, 
But  which  stern  Death  had  found  undone. 
With  greatest  haste  the  trench  was  spanned 
By  bridge  which  was  as  quickly  manned. 
Across  this,  armed  with  shield  and  spear, 
With  French  battalion  in  the  rear, 
A  knight,  whose  courage  won  the  prize, 
Advanced  the  fortress  to  surprise. 
The  English  leader,  Gladsdale,  shook 
With  terror,  and  his  flight  he  took 
Behind  a  second  trench  to  shield 
Himself  from  his  new  fate  revealed. 
The  French  pursued  him  close  behind, 
With  shouts  and  threats  of  every  kind, 
While  all  the  air  and  earth  around 
Were  filled  with  the  exultant  sound 
Of  Joan  crying  as  she  ran  : 
"  Surrender,  Gladsdale,  while  you  can  ! 
Thou  hast  reviled  me,  yet  I  will 
Show  lenience  and  pity  still." 
And,  as  these  words  she  uttered,  lo  ! 
The  bridge  on  which  he  met  his  foe 
With  one  tremendous  crash  went  down, 
Which  threw  defeat  on  England's  crown. 
Grand  exultations,  loud  huzzas 
Re-echoed  to  the  sleeping  stars. 
The  bells  of  Orleans  loudly  rang, 
The  multitudes  loud  pseans  sang, 


44  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Their  great  deliverer  had  come, 

Sweet  angel,  from  a  sweeter  home. 

The  maiden  modestly  believed 

The  victory  by  God  achieved. 

Her  mind  replete  with  holy  joys, 

Unbounded  gratitude  employs 

To  Him,  her  Maker,  Helper,  Friend, 

Who  ruled  the  battle  to  its  end. 

While  men  first  glorified  her  name, 

Then  God's,  declaring  both  the  same  ; 

She  was  their  glory,  she  their  rod, 

She  their  preserver,  she  their  God. 

Thus  Orleans  by  the  Maid  was  saved, 

And  France  her  banners  proudly  waved. 

Proud,  sinful  man  his  God  ignores 

Till  danger  comes,  then  God  implores. 

The  English  leaders  now  aver 

That  Joan  led,  but  God  led  her. 

He  who  sits  down  to  magnify 

His  own  success,  nor  reasons  why, 

Becomes  an  egotist,  and  then 

A  god,  superior  to  men, 

And  soon  he  dares  to  seize  the  reins 

From  Him  who  holds  them,  nor  restrains; 

But,  just  as  he  begins  to  rule, 

He  finds  himself  a  stupid  fool ; 

His  bubbles  burst,  his  castles  fall, 

He  grasps  at  nothing,  gets  it  all. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  45 

Unlike  such  dangerous  displays 
Of  self-conceit,  which  never  pays, 
The  maiden,  thinking  it  a  crime 
In  such  vain  shows  to  waste  her  time, 
Prepared  for  victory  complete, 
By  kneeling  at  the  mercy  seat, 
These  were  her  beautiful  displays, 
God  first,  self  last,  which  always  pays. 
Now  marching  from  Orleans  at  will, 
Which  with  her  praise  resounded  still, 
They  marched  to  strike  a  with'ring  blow 
Against  the  next  stronghold,  Jergeau. 
Scarce  had  the  lovely  month  of  June 
Put  half  her  chords  in  perfect  tune, 
When  battle's  shout  and  cannon's  roar 
A  great  attack  announced  once  more. 
The  angel  Death  with  sable  wings 
Besmeared  with  blood  exultant  sings  : 
"O  mortal  men  !  why  fight  and  die? 
Who  gains  the  triumph,  you  or  I  ? 
Do  as  you  will ;  while  you  remain 
The  more  you  lose,  the  more  I  gain. 
What  has  been  done  I  will  undo. 
Created  beings  I  pursue, 
And  as  they  fight,  or  dance,  or  sing, 
Or  praise,  or  curse,  I  snap  the  string. 
Thus  millions  now  I  have  in  store, 
Ten  million  times  ten  millions  more 


46  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Will  gather  round  me  one  by  one 
Ere  my  great  work  on  earth  is  done." 
But  what  is  life  in  time  of  war  ? 
'T  is  no  more  than  a  shooting-star 
Whose  flight,  unnoticed  and  unknown 
Sweeps  through  the  azure  and  is  gone. 
Amid  the  battle's  awful  din, 
The  French  resolved  Jergeau  to  win ; 
The  maiden,  by  some  power  impelled, 
The  rampart  mounted,  and  upheld 
Her  standard  resolute,  alone, 
When  suddenly  a  ragged  stone 
Was  hurled  and  in  its  whizzing  flight 
It  felled  her  senseless  from  their  sight. 
The  angel  Death  with  horrid  shriek 
Descended  like  a  lightning's  streak 
And  clutched  the  Maid ;  but  no ;   O,  no  ! 
God's  arm  protects  ;  dread  angel,  go  ! 
With  broken  helmet  she  arose 
Up  from  the  ditch  where  brief  repose 
Had  lulled  her  senses  fast  to  sleep, 
And  stationed  angels  watch  to  keep. 
Her  casque  of  steel  and  flowing  hair, 
Which  was  arranged  with  maiden's  care, 
Her  precious  life  so  well  preserved 
That  Death,  though  present,  unobserved 
Retired  without  his  long-sought  game 
Into  the  darkness  whence  he  came. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  47 

Thus  rescued  she  resumed  her  place, 

Her  duty  stamped  upon  her  face. 

Her  army  seemed  at  once  to  draw 

New  inspiration  when  they  saw 

Their  leader  from  the  foe  preserved 

To  vindicate  the  flag  she  served. 

Now  as  a  mountain  wave  recedes, 

Then  gathers  force  as  it  proceeds 

Until  it  reaches  rock  or  shore 

Then  dashes  on  with  awful  roar, 

So  Joan's  army  first  withdrew, 

And  then  with  all  their  force  they  threw 

Themselves  in  one  united  mass 

Against  the  city,  and,  alas  ! 

The  feeble  stronghold  tried  in  vain 

Its  re-enforcements  to  obtain. 

A  deadly  struggle  now  took  place, 

Each  moment  seemed  to  fill  all  space, 

With  spirits  groaning,  as  their  flight 

They  took  beyond  our  mortal  sight. 

Just  then  the  Maid  rushed  to  their  head, 

Her  face  appearing  like  the  dead. 

"  Brave  men  !  "  she  said  :  "  Do  not  delay  ! 

Dear  France  is  proud  of  you  to-day  !  " 

One  mighty  effort  then  they  made, 

The  English  force  became  dismayed. 

And  as  they  saw  the  ghastly  form 

Of  Joan  riding  on  the  storm 


48  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Of  fire,  and  smoke,  and  shot,  and  ball, 

Jergeau  surrendered  —  once  for  all. 

Another  great  day's  work  was  done, 

Another  victory  was  won. 

As  through  the  city  now  her  own 

She  rode  amid  the  dying  groan, 

The  sob,  the  gasp,  the  cry,  the  prayer, 

The  pictures  of  abject  despair, 

Her  eyes  were  moved  to  tears  to  see 

Such  suffering  humanity  : 

And  so  dismounting,  full  of  love, 

Like  some  sweet  angel  from  above 

The  bleeding  wounds  herself  she  dressed, 

The  dying  moments  sweetly  blessed ; 

She  had  a  kind  word  for  each  one, 

Unchristian  act  she  had  for  none. 

Success  or  failure  once  begun 

A  rapid  course  it  seems  to  run. 

Success  holds  mastery  o'er  all, 

Till  suddenly  it  gets  a  fall ; 

Then  Failure  takes  most  rapid  strides 

And  conquers  all  and  all  derides. 

Success  now  seems  to  hold  the  reins 

And  laughs  while  Failure  sore  complains ; 

And  every  effort  seems  to  yield 

New  triumphs  on  the  battlefield ; 

For  city  after  city  threw 

Its  gates  wide  open,  as  she  drew 


JOAN  OF  ARC  49 

Her  valiant  army  round  its  walls, 

Then  to  her  aid  Jehovah  calls. 

As  onward  now  her  march  she  took 

Auxerre  and  Troyes  and  Chalons  shook 

With  fear  and  opened  wide  their  gates, 

Submissive  to  the  higher  fates. 

And  Rheims  also  was  glad  to  raise 

The  Fleurs-de-lis  of  France  with  praise.      » 

O,  mighty  plan  so  well  conceived  ! 

O,  mighty  victory  achieved  ! 

Joan,  the  peasant  of  Lorraine, 

Had  broken  England's  mighty  chain, 

Stern  Duty's  hardest  paths  had  trod, 

Had  saved  her  king,  obeyed  her  God, 

And  had  enrolled  her  peasant  name 

On  history's  bright  page  of  fame. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer's  day, 

The  breaking  clouds  had  passed  away 

And  had  unveiled  the  gorgeous  sun, 

And  all  Creation  had  begun 

Its  mystic  beauty  to  display, 

For  it  was  Coronation  Day. 

The  air  was  clear,  the  skies  were  bright, 

The  dewclrops  sparkled  in  the  light, 

The  flow'rs,  in  endless  beauty  spread 

O'er  hill  and  vale,  their  fragrance  shed, 

The  birds  sang  sweetly  from  the  trees 

And  filled  with  song  each  rising  breeze : 


5O  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

All  nature  seemed  to  find  a  voice, 
And  with  humanity  rejoice 
And  praise  her  God  as  ne'er  before, 
For  France  had  found  her  king  once  more. 
The  streets  of  Rheims  were  thronged  with  men 
Who  came  to  see  their  king  again, 
And  ev'ry  window,  ev'ry  tower, 
^And  ev'ry  spire  at  daybreak's  hour, 
The  flag  of  France  in  glory  waved 
In  honor  of  their  country  saved. 
The  ringing  bells  from  lofty  spires, 
The  cannon's  roar,  the  great  bonfires, 
The  songs  and  the  exultant  cries 
Extended  to  the  very  skies. 
A  long  procession  joyous,  wild, 
Conducted  by  the  Maid,  the  child, 
Approached  the  grand  cathedral  door 
And  entered  slowly  to  restore 
The  crown,  the  sword,  the  robe,  the  rod, 
To  him  their  king,  but  not  their  God. 
The  Maid  beside  the  altar  kneeled, 
Her  lips  not  prayerless,  though  sealed. 
Her  standard  in  one  hand  she  grasped, 
Her  cross  the  other  tightly  clasped. 
The  gorgeous  sun  with  rays  of  white, 
Transformed  by  painted  window  light 
Into  a  spectrum  not  its  own 
Upon  the  Maid  and  altar  shone. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  5  I 

This  transformation  made  her  seem 
More  like  an  angel  in  a  dream, 
Where  things  unite  and  reunite 
And  make  us  think  that  wrong  is  right ; 
Where  Nature's  laws  absurdly  act, 
Where  fancy  seems  as  true  as  fact ; 
There  was  a  solemn,  tomb-like  air, 
Which  hushed  the  lips  in  silent  prayer; 
And  here,  before  both  God  and  men, 
The  crownless  king  was  king  again. 
And  just  as  he  received  the  crown, 
The  mighty  mass  of  men  knelt  down 
In  adoration  of  the  Maid 
Who  crowned  her  king,  as  she  had  said. 
Then  spoke  she  in  her  sweetest  tone  : 
"  O,  gentle  king,  God's  will  is  done, 
And  dear  old  France  loud  praise  will  sing, 
Because  thou  art  again  her  king. 

O  God,  who  rul'st  supreme,  alone, 
One  voice  to  Thee  we  raise  : 
For  all  the  goodness  Thou  hast  shown, 
Accept  our  feeble  praise. 

O,  France  !  let  every  vale  rejoice  ! 
Let  ev'ry  hill  proclaim  ! 
Let  ev'ry  creature  find  a  voice 
And  praise  Jehovah's  name." 


52  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Then  from  this  vast  and  happy  throng 
Arose  a  sweet,  responsive  song : 

"  O  Thou  !  before  whom  nations  bow 

In  supplicating  prayer : 
Behold  our  nation  rescued  now 

By  one  so  young  and  fair  ! 

Dear  Maid,  let  angels  now  descend 
To  take  thy  sword  and  lance, 
Thy  coronation  to  attend 
As  Savior  of  Dear  France." 


II. 


WHILE  passing  through  life's  mortal  flight 
Some  die  while  fame  is  at  its  height 
And  leave  the  world  their  trophies  won, 
To  tell  what  more  they  might  have  done  : 
While  others  seem  to  live  too  long, 
They  reach  their  climax  full  and  strong, 
Then  live  just  long  enough  to  see 
Their  splendor  fade,  their  glory  flee, 
And  all  their  friends  who  used  to  raise 
Unbounded  gratitude  and  praise 
For  all  their  victories  achieved 
And  all  the  benefits  received, 
Now  say,  as  others  they  address  : 
"  They  have  outlived  their  usefulness." 
Now,  had  the  Maid  at  Rheims  expired, 
When  fame's  bright  zenith  she  'd  acquired, 
France  would  have  mourned  full  thirty  days, 
And  draped  each  town  with  sad  displays. 
Men  would  have  sung  her  praises  o'er 
Until  their  prating  tongues  were  sore. 
But  no ;  her  wonderful  career 
Was  not  predestined  to  end  here  ; 


54  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Her  great  adversity  enrols 

Her  name  among  the  greater  souls. 

Now  when  the  king  at  Rheims  was  crowned 

The  people  stood  in  awe  profound, 

Convinced  indeed  that  God  had  made 

Him  king  of  France  by  special  aid. 

Beneath  the  bright  unclouded  sky 

Of  torrid,  scorching-hot  July, 

The  king  and  army  marched  from  Rheims 

Along  one  of  the  lesser  streams, 

To  capture  Paris  by  that  power 

Which  had  sustained  the  Maid  each  hour. 

The  maiden  urged  the  king  to  make 

At  once  a  grand  attack,  to  take 

Proud  Paris  from  the  haughty  hands 

That  closed  her  gates  'gainst  his  commands. 

The  king,  however,  much  preferred 

That  the  attack  should  be  deferred 

Until  he  could  negotiate 

For  peace,  however  high  the  rate. 

Thus  many  days  were  thrown  away 

In  nothing  but  this  vain  display  ; 

But  when,  at  length,  the  king  declared 

That  he  for  battle  was  prepared, 

The  maiden's  face  expression  bore 

Such  as  had  not  been  seen  before. 

Her  Voices  warned  her  to  remain 

And  from  encounter  to  refrain. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  55 

She  therefore  asked  to  be  excused 
From  battle  ;  this  the  king  refused. 
He  bade  her  to  resume  her  course ; 
If  not,  she  would  be  urged  by  force. 
She  could  not  but  observe  a  change 
In  her  career  ;  it  seemed  now  strange. 
She  felt  that  her  great  work  was  o'er, 
That  she  was  called  to  fight  no  more. 
The  future  seemed  to  sadly  say  : 
"  O,  maiden  !  you  have  had  your  day." 
With  trench,  and  wall,  and  guarded  gates, 
Proud  Paris  in  suspense  awaits 
The  hour,  when  from  her  streets  shall  rise 
The  songs  of  triumph  to  the  skies. 
According  to  the  king's  command, 
The  Maid  and  army  took  their  stand 
On  rising  ground  in  full  array 
Before  the  gate  St.  Honored 
Complete  arrangements  being  made, 
A  loud,  terrific  cannonade 
Commenced  on  either  side,  and  raged 
Intensely  as  for  life  engaged. 
Joan  commanded  the  assault, 
And  did  it,  too,  without  a  fault ; 
Intenser  and  intenser  grew 
The  conflict  as  they  nearer  drew. 
The  Maid,  and  leaders  of  the  French, 
At  once  leaped  o'er  the  foremost  trench, 


56  JOAN  OF  ARC- 

And  started  for  the  second,  where 

A  storm  of  bullets  filled  the  air. 

At  this  the  leaders  shook  with  fear, 

For  death,  appalling  death  was  near. 

They  faltered  and  with  hurried  breath 

They  cried  :  "  O,  Maid  !  invite  not  death." 

"  Fear  not !  "  she  said  ;  "for  God  can  save, 

Though  we  are  hurled  into  the  grave. 

Come  on  !  and  let  your  country  know 

That  you  fear  not  death's  feeble  blow  ! " 

Then  on  they  rushed,  no  time  to  waste, 

And  reached  the  trench  in  breathless  haste. 

"  Fill  up  the  trench,  O  men,  with  mud 

And  cross  it,  though  you  cross  in  blood  ! " 

The  trench  was  filled ;  then  Joan  waved 

That  standard  which  dear  France  had  saved. 

And  shouted  in  her  loudest  tone  : 

"  Surrender,  Paris,  to  God's  Throne  ! 

For  He  who  rules  both  earth  and  sky  "  — 

She  said  no  more,  but  shrieked ;  her  thigh 

Was  pierced,  and  from  the  wound  there  gushed 

A  crimson  stream  which  unimpeded  rushed. 

She  fainted,  fell  among  the  dead, 

And  seemed  like  one  whose  life  had  fled. 

Now,  when  the  king  knew  this  defeat, 

His  order  came  :  "  Retreat !  retreat !  " 

The  maiden  heard  this  with  despair ; 

Her  fingers  clutched  her  bloody  hair. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  57 

"  O  God  !  "  she  murmured,  "  is  this  right?" 

Then  fainted,  gasped,  —  oh  !  dreadful  sight. 

Night  fell  upon  the  city,  plain, 

The  ground  was  covered  with  the  slain. 

And,  as  she  lay  in  great  distress, 

Despairing  from  her  ill  success, 

Her  soldiers  cursed  her,  head  and  foot, 

And  shameful  questions  to  her  put. 

She  sobbed  and  wept,  she  rolled  and  moaned, 

She  shrieked  in  agony  and  groaned, 

She  raised  to  Heaven  her  tearful  eyes, 

Then  most  imploringly  she  cries  : 

"  O  God !  forgive  !  forgive  !  I  pray  ! 

Thou  knowest  all.     Oh  !  fatal  day  !  " 

This  was  a  bitter,  awful  draught, 

Which  to  its  very  dregs  she  quaffed. 

She  soon  began  herself  to  doubt, 

Her  faith  went  staggering  about, 

She  seemed  to  read  her  awful  doom 

Inscribed  in  blood  upon  her  tomb. 

"  No  more  to  battle  will  I  go," 

She  said  ;  "  no  more  to  fight  the  foe." 

And  quietly  her  sword  she  hung 

In  the  cathedral  where  it  swung 

In  peace ;  because  she  was  afraid 

Some  great  mistake  she  might  have  made. 

Entreaties  from  her  king  and  men 

Urged  her  to  take  up  arms  again. 


58  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  could  but  notice  their  appeal, 
And  with  renewed,  more  fervent  zeal 
She  said  :  "  O  king,  I  bow  to  thee  ; 
For  thy  command  is  law  to  me. 
God  has  enthroned  thee,  God  has  raised 
France  from  her  downfall,  God  be  praised  ! 
I  see  before  me  clouds  of  woe, 
Yet,  king,  most  noble  king,  I  go. 
May  God  forbid  that  I,  this  day, 
My  king,  His  servant,  disobey  !  " 
Great  was  the  triumph  England  gained, 
Great  was  the  loss  the  French  sustained, 
When  Paris  from  her  walls  unfurled 
The  flag  of  England  to  the  world. 
That  this  sad  loss  might  be  concealed, 
The  French  their  dead  bore  from  the  field 
And  in  one  mass,  with  fires  so  bright, 
They  burned  them  in  the  dead  of  night 
And  when  the  smoke  had  cleared  away, 
And  night  was  transformed  into  day, 
The  ashes  borne  up  by  the  gale, 
Were  spread  abroad  to  tell  the  tale. 
This  great  ill-fated  enterprise 
The  French  seemed  to  demoralize. 
Success  elates,  puffs  up,  cajoles, 
But  adverse  fortune  tries  men's  souls. 
And  now  succeeding  a  delay, 
Existing  only  for  a  day, 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  59 

Hostilities  afresh  resumed, 

The  French  and  English  both  consumed, 

She  therefore  took  up  arms  once  more  : 

But  not  as  she  bore  arms  before. 

One  night  alone  the  Maid  withdrew 

To  seek,  once  more,  an  interview 

With  those  whose  nature  God  conceals, 

With  those  before  whom  mortal  kneels. 

Her  soul  was  full  of  sadness  now, 

She  saw,  or  seemed  to  see,  somehow, 

The  Future  filled  with  bloody  lakes, 

With  prison  bars  and  burning  stakes. 

No  ray  of  light  now  met  her  eyes, 

No  hope,  no  help,  before  her  lies. 

But  hush  !     Her  Voices  now  return ; 

She  gives  an  ear  that  she  may  learn. 

They  speak  to  her,  —  they  seem  so  strange ; 

Again!    she  starts.     O,  what  a  change  ! 

It  used  to  be  her  great  delight 

To  talk  with  them  by  day  or  night. 

They  were  the  happy  angels  then 

Whose  mission  was  to  cheer  up  men. 

But  now,  like  spirits  from  the  grave 

Whose  flesh  and  blood  the  worms  still  crave, 

There  seemed  to  be  a  horrid  throng, 

Which  to  the  tomb  alone  belong, 

That  stood  before  her  anxious  gaze 

To  talk  with  her,  to  curse  or  praise ; 


60  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  soon  they  broke  the  solemn  pause 
By  moving  their  unsightly  jaws. 
She  heard  a  low,  sepulchral  tone 
That  chilled  her  to  the  very  bone. 
They  spoke ;  she  shuddered,  then  remained 
Speechless,  motionless,  as  if  chained. 
"  Within  three  months,"  said  one,  "  a  cell 
Of  stone  and  steel  shall  hold  thee  well ! " 
"  Within  six  more,"  a  second  cried, 
"  Thou  shall  be  by  the  judges  tried." 
"  Within  a  year,"  the  third  then  spake, 
"Thou  shalt  be  tortured  at  the  stake." 
She  shrieked  aloud :  "  Oh  !  God  above  ! 
Hast  Thou  withdrawn  Thy  tender  love?" 
But  hold,  a  light  breaks  on  her  woe. 
She  hears  a  voice  she  used  to  know, 
"  God  will  be  with  thee,  Maid,"  it  said  ; 
"  Fear  not !    A  crown  awaits  thy  head  !  " 
At  this  her  sorrow  turned  to  bliss, 
She  seemed  to  leave  that  dark  abyss, 
She  gazed  into  the  sky  above, 
She  saw  descend,  a  pure,  white  dove, 
She  leaped  for  joy.     "  Sweet  angel  come 
And  take  me  to  your  happy  home  ! " 
The  dove  drew  nigh  on  noiseless  wings. 
She  listens.     Hark  !     The  creature  sings  : 
"  Sweet  girl,  arise  !     Take  up  thy  lance, 
Thou  hast  not  yet  done  all  for  France. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  6 1 

Be  faithful,  fervent,  earnest,  true, 

And  God  will  keep  and  comfort  you." 

Then  stretching  out  her  arms  once  more, 

She  said  :  "  O,  let  me  with  thee  soar  ! 

Let  me  this  cruel  world  forget ! " 

The  answer  came  :  "  Not  yet !     Not  yet ! " 

And  then  the  dove  returning  flies 

Back  to  its  home  within  the  skies  : 

And  as  it  takes  its  silent  flight 

It  sings  with  vanishing  delight : 

"  Be  faithful,  fervent,  earnest,  true, 

And  God  will  keep  and  comfort  you." 

The  vision  left  the  maid  so  weak 

That  she  could  hardly  move  or  speak. 

She  sighed,  she  cried,  and  tried  in  vain 

To  keep  awake  her  dozing  brain. 

But  no,  sweet  sleep  his  visit  pays, 

And  strews  with  flow'rs  the  thorny  ways. 

When  she  awoke,  night  had  withdrawn 

Her  darkest  curtain,  bringing  dawn. 

The  twinkling  stars  had  closed  their  eyes, 

And  one  by  one  retired  to  rise 

No  more  till  day's  great  king  had  pressed 

His  steeds  into  the  golden  West. 

The  Maid  arose  and  looked  around 

As  if  she  feared  the  very  ground. 

"  Sad  night,"  she  said  ;  "  is  this  a  dream? 

And  are  things  to  be  what  they  seem  ? 


62  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

O,  would  that  I  might  fall  asleep 
To  wake  where  men  no  more  shall  weep  ! " 
Then  kneeling,  bowed  with  grief  and  care, 
She  sought  relief  by  way  of  prayer. 

"  O  Thou  !  whose  ways  we  cannot  know, 
How  poor  and  weak  is  man, 

He  sees  life's  trouble,  sorrow,  woe, 
Yet  seldom  sees  Thy  plan. 

"  All  that  remains  of  life  to  me 

Seems  desolate  and  drear. 
How  could  I  live,  then,  without  Thee 

My  lonely  life  to  cheer  ? 

"  Whatever  things  Thou  hast  in  store 

For  me,  it  matters  not. 
I  w;H  extol  Thee  and  adore, 

Though  Hell  should  be  my  lot. 

"  And  now,  Dear  Father,  as  I  go 

To  take  up  arms  again, 
Preserve  me,  keep  me  from  the  foe, 

From  prison  cells.     Amen." 

Alas  !  when  once  misfortune  guides, 
All  hope  of  better  prospects  hides ; 
And  as  one  takes  the  downward  road, 
The  lightest  feather  seems  a  load ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  63 

And  all  he  meets,  both  small  and  great, 

Add  something  to  increase  the  weight, 

Until  he  cannot  move,  or  bear 

The  load  increased  by  one  small  hair ; 

Then  laugh  to  see  him  groan  with  pain. 

Advise  him  not  to  groan,  complain, 

Console  by  telling  his  defects, 

His  sins,  his  weaknesses,  neglects, 

By  telling  what  he  should  have  done, 

What  laurels  some  one  else  has  won. 

Perchance  he  asks  a  helping  hand, 

He  gets  a  sharp,  cold  reprimand, 

And  finally,  abject  Despair 

Finds  him  a  wretch  that  does  not  care. 

His  cool,  sarcastic  friends  then  say  : 

"  It  is  his  fault ;  he  had  his  way." 

Such  seemed  to  be  the  maiden's  lot, 

When  Duty  called  her  to  the  spot 

Where  armies  met  in  bold  array 

To  find  out  who  should  win  the  day. 

How  often  men  their  duty  see, 

And  nothing  more.     Why  should  this  be  ? 

Joan,  without  her  wonted  zeal, 

Went  forth  to  fight  without  appeal. 

For  Compiegne  she  then  set  out 

And  conquered  all  upon  the  route. 

This  city,  strongly  fortified 

By  massive  walls  and  trenches,  wide, 


64  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  sought  with  forces  to  supply 

Against  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

The  ringing  notes,  so  loud  and  clear, 

Of  proud,  eccentric  chanticleer 

Had  bade  the  silent,  starry  night 

Away  to  take  its  noiseless  flight, 

Had  just  announced  a  dawning  day 

In  balmy,  fragrant,  blushing  May, 

Had  broke  the  slumbers  of  the  birds, 

Had  woke  the  sleepy,  dozing  herds, 

Had  filled  the  atmosphere  around 

With  one  continued,  joyous  sound, — 

When  Joan  marched  within  the  gate 

Of  Compiegne,  there  to  await 

Burgundian  and  English  foe, 

Who  came  the  city  to  o'erthrow. 

She  went  at  once  to  church  to  take 

Communion,  and  confession  make. 

The  blush  of  youth  upon  her  cheek 

Had  faded  now,  and  pale  and  weak, 

A  pillar  of  the  nave  she  sought, 

And  leaned  against  it,  lost  in  thought. 

Grieved  by  the  sadness  of  her  face, 

Both  men  and  children  thronged  the  place, 

Attracted  to  her  by  that  love 

Which  draws  the  heart  of  man  above. 

"  Alas  !  good  friends,  and  children  dear," 

She  said,  "  why  do  you  thus  draw  near? 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  65 

My  heart  tells  me  that  I  am  sold 

To  England— God  forbid  !     Behold 

By  traitors  I  shall  be  betrayed, 

My  death  I  can  not  then  evade. 

O,  pray  for  me  with  all  your  heart, 

For  king  and  France  and  I  must  part ! 

O  Treason  !  Treason  !  born  of  Hell ! 

Alas  !  I  know  thee  but  too  well ! 

O  God  !  behold  thy  servant  here 

With  death,  tormenting  death,  to  cheer  ! 

Wilt  Thou  desert  me,  Holy  One? 

But  no ;  Thy  will,  not  mine,  be  done  ! " 

The  service  closed,  Joan  retired 

To  do  as  he,  her  king,  desired. 

The  sun  had  scarcely  raised  his  head 

Above  his  rosy-tinted  bed, 

When  from  the  king  the  order  came  : 

Advance  to  conquer  in  my  name  ! 

Leave  Compiegne,  the  river  cross, 

And  face  the  foe  whate'er  the  loss  ! 

She  left  the  city  with  her  men, 

And  barely  crossed  the  river,  when 

Upon  the  enemy  she  fell 

And  fought  courageously  and  well. 

She  never  had  displayed  before 

Her  fortitude  and  valor  more ; 

Three  times  she  forced  them  to  retreat, 

Three  times  acknowledge   a  defeat. 


66  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

From  morn  till  noon,  till  close  of  day, 
She  held  the  enemy  at  bay ; 
But  just  before  the  sun  went  down 
On  this  day's  well-deserved  renown, 
Burgundian  and  English  host 
Unite  e'en  to  their  uttermost, 
Resolved  to  capture  live  or  dead, 
The  Maid  before  whom  armies  fled ; 
For  they  considered  her  alone, 
The  soul  of  France  in  terror  shown, 
The  living  cause  of  their  defeats, 
The  pow'r  that  conquers  whom  it  meets. 
Unequal  contest :  on  one  side 
The  English  forces  stretching  wide 
Advanced,  their  weapons  glist'ning  bright 
Beneath  the  sunset's  gorgeous  light : 
Opposed  —  most  faithful  to  their  post  — 
A  mere  handful  of  men  at  most  — 
The  maiden's  army  stood  prepared 
To  fight  as  long  as  life  was  spared. 
Both  armies  halted  face  to  face, 
Each  man,  each  weapon  was  in  place. 
Both  stood  as  if  to  be  reviewed. 
A  moment's  stillness  then  ensued 
Like  that  small  fraction  of  an  hour 
Which  comes  before  a  thunder-shower. 
The  sun  seemed  to  restrain  his  car 
To  watch  this  bloody  scene  of  war. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  67 

From  this  deep  stillness  then  awoke 

The  cannon's  roar,  with  stifling  smoke, 

The  weapon's  clash,  the  death  alarms, 

The  captains'  cries  :  "  To  arms !     To  arms  ! " 

The  maiden's  voice  was  clearly  heard 

As  at  the  head  her  horse  she  spurred ; 

"  Come  on  !     Be  faithful  to  the  end  ! 

Your  country's  honor,  men,  defend  !  " 

Now  ev'ry  muscle,  nerve,  was  strained. 

Death  had  no  terror,  Valor  reigned. 

They  fought,  most  fearlessly,  the  foe. 

No  signs  of  weakness  did  they  show. 

At  last,  surrounded,  Joan  knew, 

There  was  no  hope.     A  sigh  she  drew. 

She  told  her  men  that  they  must  yield 

And  fly  if  possible,  the  field. 

They  sought  the  Oise,  irresolute, 

The  enemy  in  close  pursuit. 

Their  weary,  sore,  unwilling  feet 

Reluctantly  sought  this  retreat. 

They  reached  the  river  Oise  at  last, 

Across  its  bridge  they  safely  passed, 

And  refuge  found  within  the  gate 

Of  Compiegne  inviolate. 

Alas  !  Joan  too  long  delayed, 

Her  better  judgment  disobeyed  : 

For  at  the  point  of  sword  and  lance 

She  still  remained  to  fight  for  France 


68  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  with  her  standard  in  her  hand 

Kept  back  the  foe  as  by  command. 

The  bridge  the  last  man  safely  crossed* 

She  turned  about.     No  time  was  lost. 

She  spurred  her  horse  at  awful  rate, 

She  reached  the  bridge  — too  late  !  too  late  ! 

It  rose  and  left  the  Maid  alone  — 

A  prisoner  to  England's  throne. 

An  archer  seized  her  with  great  force 

And  dragged  her  roughly  from  her  horse. 

She  rose  defiantly  and  said, 

With  glitt'ring  sword  above  her  head  : 

"  My  blood  the  thirsty  ground  shall  drain, 

Before  I  yield  to  England's  chain  !  " 

At  this  the  archer  not  alarmed 

Most  quietly  the  Maid  disarmed. 

And  then  in  chains  he  bound  her  fast — 

Joan  the  Maid  was  slave  at  last. 

The  Bastard  of  Vendome  obtained 

The  Maid  and  held  her  firmly  chained. 

No  victory  could  be  so  great 

To  England  as  the  maiden's  fate, 

To  accident  or  treason  due, 

To  which  of  them  she  thought  she  knew. 

The  chief  of  Compiegne,  by  name 

De  Fleury,  made  her  blush  with  shame. 

For  surely  his  command  —  alas  ! 

The  drawbridge  raised  when  she  would  pass. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  69 

The  English  troops  are  wild  with  joy, 

Burgundians  loud  songs  employ, 

While  ev'ry  cannon's  dreadful  roar 

And  ev'ry  banner  red  with  gore, 

Te  Deums  in  cathedrals  sung, 

Hats  thrown  in  air  by  old  and  young, 

And  loud  huzzas  and  ringing  bells 

And  great  bonfires  with  shouts  and-  yells 

Announce  the  capture  of  the  Maid 

By  Heaven  sent  her  king  to  aid. 

Like  cattle  or  like  merchandise, 

Who  owned  her  gave  the  highest  price. 

Unmindful  of  the  great  disgrace 

They  dragged  her  caged  from  place  to  place. 

Like  some  wild  beast  from  forest  den 

They  showed  her  to  the  eyes  of  men. 

Most  shameful  deeds,  disgraceful  acts 

Are  sometimes  found  in  sternest  facts. 

To  Beaurevoir,  with  eager  pride, 

A  castle  strongly  fortified, 

The  Maid  triumphantly  they  bore 

And  threw  her  weeping  on  the  floor. 

Gold  buys  not  only  what  life  needs 

But  conscience,  reputation,  creeds. 

For  six  months  she  was  bought  and  sold 

Like  some  commodity  —  for  gold. 

To  Rouen,  then,  'mid  scoffs  and  jeers, 

Her  trial  to  await  in  tears, 


7O  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  was  removed ;  and  here  began 

The  history  one  dreads  to  scan. 

The  tinted,  falling,  pretty  leaves, 

The  ripened  grain  in  golden  sheaves, 

The  juicy  fruits  upon  the  trees, 

The  homeward  flight  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  lovely,  fading,  withered  flowers, 

The  sad,  yet  pleasant,  dreamy  hours 

The  frozen,  sparkling,  morning  dew, 

The  curling  smoke  from  chimney-flue, 

The  forest's  mournful,  murm'ring  sound, 

The  hills  in  silence  most  profound, 

The  Summer's  valedict'ry  strain 

Still  ling'ring  on  the  lonely  plain, — 

Announced  that  Autumn  days  had  come 

But  oh  !  those  days  how  burdensome 

To  her  whose  agony  of  soul 

Poured  forth  from  that  dark  dungeon-hole. 

What  beast  however  fierce  and  wild 

Was  treated  like  this  simple  child  ! 

To  satisfy  desire  or  rage 

They  threw  her  in  an  iron  cage. 

In  length  it  was  by  their  design 

So  short  that  she  could  not  recline. 

In  height,  also  by  their  command 

It  was  so  low  she  could  not  stand. 

The  third  dimension  could  be  seen 

Would  just  admit  the  Maid  between 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  71 

The  massive  bars  to  which  great  chains 

Were  fastened  to  increase  the  pains. 

Around  her  neck  one  chain  was  wound, 

Her  wrists  and  ankles  others  bound, 

And  then  the  cage  and  Maid  were  thrown 

Into  a  cell  and  left  alone. 

How  dark  it  was  !     E'en  darkest  night, 

Compared  with  this  dark  cell,  was  light. 

To  add  to  its  most  dreadful  gloorti, 

Foul  odors,  like  those  from  the  tomb, 

Arose  and  filled  the  chilly  air 

With  poison  for  the  Maid  to  share. 

No  sounds,  save  those  from  prison  bell, 

Broke  the  dead  silence  of  the  cell. 

Joan,  in  this  dark,  dismal  den, 

Wept  o'er  the  treachery  of  men. 

Distressed  by  intense  sorrow,  she 

Poured  forth  her  bitter  agony  : 

"  'Tis  not  the  pain  that  makes  me  cry, 

I  would  endure  it  all, —  yes,  die, — 

My  country  and  my  king  to  free 

From  their  accursed  slavery. 

But  oh  !  how  weak,  how  false,  profane 

Is  man  when  seeking  sordid  gain." 

She  tried  to  clasp  her  hands  in  prayer, 

But  no  ;  those  cruel  chains  were  there. 

Although  her  body  was  confined, 

No  chains  nor  bars  could  check  her  mind. 


72  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  thus  in  sweetest  earnestness 

Her  lips  her  thoughts  tried  to  express  : 

"  Dear  Father,  help  me  at  this  hour, 

On  earth,  there  is  no  saving  power, 

Man  has  condemned  me  for  my  deeds, 

Not  one  —  appears  —  who  —  intercedes. 

Wilt  Thou  —  my  soul  —  in  mercy  —  keep  ?  — 

For  —  give  —  them  —  all."     She  falls  asleep. 

But  lo  !  Life's  curtain  is  withdrawn, 

She  sees  the  bright,  celestial  dawn, 

The  Gates  of  Paradise  unclose, 

She  looks  within,  there  are  no  woes, 

No  fears,  no  chains,  no  deaths,  no  pains, 

But  happiness  supremest  reigns. 

She  saw  a  city  made  of  gold 

With  streets  of  pearl.     Yes,  more ;  behold 

Ascending  steps  of  crystal  glass 

Support  the  angels  as  they  pass 

From  Earth  to  Heaven  and  convey 

Departed  Spirits  on  their  way. 

But  hark  !     She  hears  ecstatic  strains, 

Seraphic  music  entertains ; 

It  seems  to  come  so  very  near, 

She  looks  ;  the  choruses  appear. 

Three  Saints  attired  in  silver  light 

Conducted,  clad  in  garments  bright, 

Ten  thousand  angels  from  the  skies 

Before  her  sleepy,  dreamy  eyes. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  73 

And  as  the  bright  and  happy  throng 

Before  her  lightly  pass  along 

A  tiny,  pretty,  fragrant  flower 

Plucked  by  the  angels  from  its  bower, 

Each  dropped  and  whispered  :  "  God  is  love," 

Then  took  its  happy  flight  above  ; 

And  as  its  white  receding  wings 

So  lightly  bear  it  home  it  sings  : 

"  Be  faithful,  fervent,  earnest,  true 

And  God  will  keep  and  comfort  you." 

The  Saints  remained  till  all  had  fled, 

Then  lifting  up  her  weary  head 

They  broke  asunder  all  her  chains, 

Destroyed  the  cage  and  eased  her  pains, 

And  smote  the  dungeon-wall  of  stone 

And  took  away  her  flesh  and  bone ; 

Then  bade  her  swiftly  to  arise 

And  mount  with  them  the  distant  skies. 

She  seemed  to  tread  the  very  air. 

Space  had  foundations  ev'rywhere. 

She  bade  the  world  a  sweet  good-night, 

She  passed  the  twinkling  stars  in  flight, 

She  passed  the  sun  and  worlds  unknown, 

She  almost  reached  the  Golden  Throne, — 

When  lo  !  her  chains  the  silence  broke, 

She  started,  screamed.     She  had  awoke. 

It  was  a  dream.     Alas  —  a  dream 

Which  made  her  lot  more  dreadful  seem. 


74  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

When  grief  and  woe  the  mind  distress 
How  sweet  is  sleep's  unconsciousness  ! 
But  when  from  sleep  the  mind  awakes 
Grief  doubles,  woe  no  limit  takes  ! 
From  bliss  the  Maid  awoke  to  see 
Herself  in  abject  misery. 
The  vision  was  before  her  eyes 
But  oh  !  how  dreadful  were  her  cries  ! 
"  O  God  ! "  she  said,  "why  must  I  know 
This  dungeon-cell,  this  hell  below? 
Why  was  I  born  ?     O  fatal  day 
That  gave  life  to  this  lump  of  clay  ! 
O  Death  !     Thou  hast  no  sting  for  me  ! 
O  Grave  !     Thou  hast  no  victory  ! 
My  mother  bowed  in  bitter  tears, 
That  mother  who  in  tender  years, 
Taught  me  to  kneel,  taught  me  to  pray  : 
'  Our  Father.'    Oh  !  what  will  she  say  ! 
When  Rumor  tells  her  that  her  child  — 
Her  dearest  one  —  is  so  denied. 
And  home  —  that  dearest  place  on  earth, 
That  place  where  love  first  had  its  birth, 
That  place  where  father,  mother  meet 
Each  day  around  the  mercy  seat 
That  place  where  brother,  sister  plead 
For  that  forgiveness  which  all  need, 
That  place  which  all  your  faults  conceals, 
That  place  which  all  your  sorrow  heals, 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  75 

That  place  which  God  gave  man  in  love, 

Sweet  emblem  of  the  Home  above,  — 

No  more  shall  I  behold  that  place, 

No  more  shall  feel  its  sweet  embrace. 

Alas,  my  grief  no  tongue  can  tell. 

God  bless  my  home  !    Dear  home,  farewell !  " 

The  jailor  then  unlocked  the  door 

Of  this  dark  cell,  and  on  the  floor 

He  placed  a  pan  of  water,  foul, 

And  said  in  tones  most  like  a  growl : 

"  There 's  water  !     Drink,  as  quick  as  flash  ! 

And  stop  that  noise  or  get  the  lash  !  " 

"  I  do  not  like,  sir,  to  complain ; 

But  will  you  loose  my  ankle  chain? 

It  hurts  me  so  I  can  not  keep 

From  crying,  though  I  be  asleep." 

"  Enough  !     I  '11  hear  no  more,"  he  said  ; 

"The  curse  of  France  is  on  your  head. 

Complain  again  and  you  shall  feel 

The  cutting  lash  from  head  to  heel." 

He  slammed  the  door  and  turned  the  key, 

Her  lips  still  asking  to  be  free. 

And  left  alone  like  singing  bird 

Imprisoned,  there  was  faintly  heard 

A  sweet,  a  touching,  plaintive  song 

Which  echo  scarcely  could  prolong  : 

She  seemed  to  see  her  mother's  face 

And  thus  she  sang:  in  her  embrace  : 


76  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"O  Mother  !     I  must  bid  farewell, 
The  end  is  drawing  near  : 
O,  kiss  me  mother  dear,  and  tell 
My  father  not  to  fear. 

The  Future  seems  so  dark  to  me, 
So  full  of  pain  and  woe  ; 
Draw  nearer,  Mother ;  let  me  see 
Your  face  before  you  go. 

I  saw  the  angels  come  last  night 
And  stand  around  my  bed  : 
I  thought  they  took  me  in  their  flight, 
Yet  here  I  am  instead ; 

Sweet  angels  spread  your  snowy  wings 
And  come  once  more  to  me  : 
Unbind  these  cruel  iron  rings 
And  bear  me  homeward  —  free. 

Farewell !  dear  Mother,  Father,  Friends  ! 
Farewell  to  all  I  love  : 
Each  day  my  earnest  prayer  ascends 
That  we  may  meet  above." 

The  English  of  success  were  sure 
Because  they  held  the  Maid  secure, 
And  they  considered  her  alone, 
The  power  that  shook  all  England's  throne ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  77 

But  power  if  only  Deified 

Can  act  though  not  personified  ; 

And  so  that  power  which  hurled  the  lance 

At  England,  in  behalf  of  France, 

Still  reigned  and'  conquered  as  before, 

Though  its  possessor  fetters  wore. 

Strong  Compiegne,  with  forces  vast, 

Surrendered  to  the  French  at  last. 

And  city,  village,  hamlet,  town, 

In  quick  succession  to  the  crown 

Of  France  surrendered  full,  complete, 

And  England  cursed  her  sad  defeat. 

The  English  hatred  now  became 

So  strong  for  Joan,  that  her  name 

When  mentioned  made  them  rave  and  swear 

That  greater  torture  she  should  bear. 

Hate  cried  for  vengeance,  vengeance  cried  : 

"  By  blood  will  I  be  satisfied." 

Three  months  the  Maid  in  prison  lay, 

Tormented  more  and  more  each  day, 

When  from  the  king  of  England's  hand 

A  letter  came  with  this  command  : 

Joan  the  Maid,  by  my  decree, 

By  Bishop  of  Beauvais  shall  be 

Examined,  tried,  that  he  may  draw 

A  plea  of  guilt  by  God  and  law. 

What  could  have  been  more  base,  absurd, 

Than  that  her  trial  should  be  heard 


78  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

By  one  whose  very  "heart  and  soul 
Was  under  England's  full  control. 
The  king  and  bishop  then  decide^ 
That  she  be  in  the  prison  tried, 
Where  she  might  not  by  any  chance 
Escape  their  constant  vigilance. 
They  were  resolved  her  life  to  take, 
Yet  really  had  no  charge  to  make ; 
So  spies  to  ev'ry  town  were  sent 
To  find  some  charges,  or  invent 
Some  plot  which  would  convict  the  Maid, 
Though  truth  and  justice  they  evade. 
The  spies  returned  and  with  them  brought 
These  charges,  which  they  had  not  sought : 
"  Truth,  virtue,  love  for  ev'ry  one, 
Sweet  faith  in  God  and  Christ  His  Son." 
The  Bishop  heard  the  spies'  report. 
"  Ye  traitors  of  the  meanest  sort ! 
Ye  cowards  !  villains  !  ye  deserve 
To  die  the  death  of  her  ye  serve  ! " 
Thus  he  addressed  them,  thus  displayed 
His  feelings  for  Joan  the  Maid. 
An  hundred  judges,  learned,  wise, 
Her  grand  tribunal  did  comprise. 
They  could  examine,  blame,  denounce,- 
But  sentence  they  could  not  pronounce. 
Their  presence  seemed  to  be  required 
For  that  display  which  was  desired. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  79 

They  hoped  to  thrill  the  Maid  with  fear 

By  telling  her  she  should  appear 

Before  these  judges  who  so  well 

Her  inmost  thoughts  could  surely  tell. 

The  Bishop  of  Beauvais  had  power 

To  sentence  her  when  came  the  hour. 

The  time  of  trial  was  at  hand 

As  stated  by  the  king's  command. 

Outside  the  cell  the  prison  hall 

Was  bounded  by  a  huge  stone  wall. 

The  roof  above  shut  out  the  light 

And  made  it  dark  as  any  night, 

Along  these  walls  fierce  soldiers  stood 

Like  beasts  of  prey  which  thirst  for  blood. 

An  hundred  benches  set  in  rows, 

Where  tired  nature  could  repose, 

At  one  end  of  the  hall  were  placed 

And  each  a  judge  most  learned  graced ; 

While  in  their  midst  upon  a  chair 

The  Bishop  sat  with  priestly  air. 

Before  his  chair  a  slab  of  stone 

Served  as  a  desk  on  which  were  thrown 

His  books  and  papers,  pen  and  ink,  — 

Those  things  which  help  great  men  to  think. 

Before  this  desk,  with  rapid  pen 

The  scribes  were  placed,  their  number  ten. 

The  English  rabble  fierce  and  wild 

Came  in  to  persecute  the  child. 


80  JO  A  N  OF  ARC. 

The  dimly  burning  tapers'  light 

Shone  like  the  fireflies  in  the  night ; 

Which  only  made  this  solemn  scene 

More  like  that  where  lost  souls  convene. 

The  hour  arrives.     The  prison  bell 

Tolls  mournfully  a  parting  knell 

As  if  some  soul  had  met  its  doom 

Beyond  the  veil  of  mortal  gloom. 

The  judges,  Bishop,  rabble,  all 

Remain  in  silence  in  the  hall. 

The  massive  iron  doors,  which  hung 

Upon  their  creaking  hinges,  swung 

Wide  open.     Ev'ry  eye  was  strained 

To  see  the  beast  led  forward  chained. 

Her  chains  which  rattled  on  the  floor, 

As  step  by  step  she  neared  the  door, 

Delighted  this  most  eager  throng 

More  than  some  sweet,  enchanting  song. 

Joan  appeared,  her  face  was  white, 

Her  eyes  unnaturally  bright, 

Her  lips  were  blue,  her  cheeks  were  thin, 

Her  bones  seemed  bursting  through  the  skin ; 

Back  from  her  forehead  full  and  fair 

Her  bony  fingers  kept  her  hair. 

Her  head  was  bowed,  her  body  bent, 

Her  strength,  her  life,  were  nearly  spent. 

Her  steps  were  weak,  her  breath  was  short, 

And  thus  they  dragged  her  into  court. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  8  I 

Her  trembling  steps  approached,  at  length, 

The  pris'ner's  stand,  and  here  her  strength 

Seemed  scarcely  able  to  sustain 

Her  heavy,  dragging,  cruel  chain, 

And  here,  before  the  Bishop's  chair, 

She  kneeled  in  humble,  silent  prayer. 

At  this  the  rabble  loudly  cheered 

And  yelled,  and  hooted,  scoffed,  and  sneered, 

And  cried  :  "  Ye  witch,  't  is  time  to  pray, 

We  have  a  debt  now  we  will  pay  : 

May  curses  be  your  daily  bread, 

And  fires  torment  you,  live  or  dead  ! " 

Joan  arose  her  charge  to  wait, 

She  had  no  counsel,  advocate. 

"  Be  silent  all !  "  the  Bishop  said, 

And  then  he  thus  addressed  the  Maid  : 

"Joan,  you  are  accused  of  crime 

Against  the  Holy  Faith  sublime ; 

Also,  as  we  regret  to  see, 

Of  Sacrilege  and  Heresy. 

Young  Maid,  what  is  your  age?"  he  cried. 

"  About  nineteen,  sir,"  she  replied. 

"  What  can  you  say  of  these  base  crimes, 

Unequaled  in  these  Christian  times?" 

"  My  mother,  sir,  taught  me  to  say 

The  Pater  Noster  ev'ry  day, 

The  Ave  also  and  the  Creed, 

According  to  my  daily  need. 


82  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

No  one,  except  my  mother  dear, 

Taught  me  my  God  to  worship  here." 

"  Repeat  aloud  the  Creed  and  prayers," 

He  said,  "  before  these  learned  chairs." 

"  O  sir  !  I  cannot  read  a  word, 

I  only  know  them  as  I  heard 

Them  from  my  mother's  lips  as  she 

Taught  me  to  pray  so  earnestly. 

I  am  afraid  that  some  mistake 

In  its  hard  language  I  might  make, 

And  by  this  ignorant  display 

Something  against  my  God  might  say. 

If,  as  confessor,  you  will  hear 

My  prayers  and  Creed,  sir,  give  an  ear, 

Most  willingly  will  I  recite 

Them  as  I  say  them  ev'ry  night." 

"  Back  to  the  dungeon,  jailor,  lead 

This  Maid  who  knows  not  prayers  nor  Creed." 

And  bending  underneath  the  weight 

Of  iron  chains,  of  curse  and  hate, 

Within  her  cage  and  cell  once  more 

He  led  her  back  and  locked  the  door. 

The  rabble  shouted  :  "Witch  !  "  and  howled. 

The  judges  shook  their  heads  and  scowled. 

The  Bishop's  eyes  were  on  the  floor, 

His  face  a  sad  expression  bore. 

The  jailor  threw  a  crust  of  bread 

Beneath  the  door;  but  nothing  said. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  83 

Alone  once  more  her  breaking  heart 

Cried  bitterly  :  "  O  Thou  !  who  art 

The  Infinite,  Eternal  One  — 

My  God  !     My  God  !     What  have  I  done  ! 

That  this  most  dreadful  weight  of  woe 

Should  crush  the  soul  that  loves  Thee  so  ! 

Have  I  been  false  ?     Is  my  past  life 

One  record  of  a  sinful  strife? 

Have  I,  by  sin,  offended  Thee  ? 

For  this  hast  Thou  deserted  me  ? 

Have  I  been  serving  Satan's  will? 

And  am  I  serving  Satan  still? 

Shall  I,  at  last,  my  Voices  find 

To  be  from  my  deluded  mind  ? 

O  God  !     Forbid  that  I  should  be 

Deceived  by  such  base  treachery  ! 

Forgive  me,  Father,  still  I  pray. 

Increase  my  faith  from  day  to  day. 

O  give  me  courage  to  appear 

Before  my  judges  without  fear  ! 

And  grant  me  wisdom,  power  of  thought 

To  answer  questions  as  I  ought ! 

In  mercy  guide  me  to  the  end  ! 

My  dying  moments,  God,  defend  ! 

Sustain  me  in  that  dreadful  hour 

When  flames  my  trembling  flesh  devour : 

And  when  the  awful  scene  is  o'er 

And  men  can  torture  me  no  more, 


84  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Then,  Father,  may  my  soul  arise 

Triumphant  to  the  purer  skies  !  " 

But  hark  !     Again  that  voice  is  heard 

Repeating  sweetly  word  for  word  : 

"  Be  faithful,  fervent,  earnest,  true, 

And  God  will  keep  and  comfort  you." 

The  next  day's  sun  had  scarce  unfurled 

His  banner  o'er  a  wintry  world, 

And  called  from  slumbers  sweet  and  sad 

Unconscious  mortals  good  and  bad, 

When  hastily  the  eager  crowd 

With  gestures  wild  and  voices  loud, 

Assembled  in  the  hall  to  see 

The  next  act  in  this  tragedy. 

The  Bishop,  judges,  scribes  assumed 

Their  duties,  and  the  case  resumed. 

The  Bishop  spoke,  and  all  were  dumb  : 

"  Bring  forth  the  Maid,  the  hour  is  come." 

Joan  appeared,  and  sweetly  smiled, 

For  she  was  fully  reconciled. 

"  Joan  !  "  he  said,  "  upon  your  oath, 

Before  your  God  and  country  both 

You  are  commanded  to  reveal 

The  truth  and  nothing  to  conceal." 

u  Most  noble  lord,"  she  said,  and  bowed 

As  well  as  by  her  chains  allowed, 

"  Think  well  of  what  you  dare  to  claim 

When  you  charge  me  in  His  great  name 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  85 

To  tell  the  truth  concerning  things 
Which  appertain  to  God  and  kings. 
You  say  you  are  my  judge  —  not  so  ; 
You  are  instead  my  greatest  foe  ! 
Sir  !  in  the  name  of  God  I  stand, 
I  care  not  for  man's  weak  command,  — 
He  can  accuse,  he  can  convict, 
Most  dreadful  pain  he  can  inflict, 
And  he  my  wretched  life  can  take 
By  rack  or  axe  or  burning  stake  ; 
But  all  the  powers  of  earth  combined 
Which  ever  mortal  dared  to  find 
Can  not  destroy  ;  yea  —  harm  my  soul, 
Thank  God  !     He  can  not  that  control ! 
Sir,  you  can  ask  me  what  you  will 
My  motto  has  been  truth  ;  is  still. 
Two  things  from  me  no  man  can  draw, 
By  any  threat,  by  any  law  : 
The  secrets  of  my  God  above 
And  of  my  king  whose  throne  I  love." 
The  rabble  yelled  :  "  Give  her  the  rack ! 
A  hundred  stripes  upon  the  back  ! " 
The  judges  from  their  seats  arose 
And  calmed  their  fury  to  repose. 
The  Bishop  simply  said  :  "  Beware  ! 
Defy  not ;  though  you  think  you  dare." 
He  then  went  on  :   "  Do  you  still  hear 
Your  Voices  as  the  saints  appear?  " 


86  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  I  do,"  she  said ;  "  they  came  last  night, 

And  when  they  came  all  seemed  so  bright." 

"  And  did  they  tell  you  not  to  fear 

That  they  would  save  though  death  were  near  ?  " 

"  To  that  I  will  not,  sir,  reply. 

If  you  would  know,  ask  Him  on  high." 

"  Well,  are  you  in  a  state  of  Grace  ?  " 

The  Bishop  asked  with  solemn  face. 

"  If  not,"  she  said,  "  O  God,  I  pray  ! 

Receive  me  into  Grace  this  day  ! 

But  if  I  am  it  is  my  prayer 

That  Thou  wilt  keep  me  safely  there." 

"  Who  are  these  saints  whom  you  have  seen 

So  often  round  your  bed  convene?" 

"  The  name  St.  Margaret  one  bore, 

Saint  Catherine  another  wore.. 

Saint  Michael  was  the  third  and  last  — 

God  grant  my  lot  with  them  is  cast !  " 

"  What  did  these  blessed  saints  reveal 

Before  whom  you  were  wont  to  kneel  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  plainly,  sir,  again  ; 

What  spirits  know  is  hid  from  men. 

Their  message  did  the  king  concern 

And  what  it  was  you  can  not  learn  !  " 

"  Well,  were  these  saints,  by  you  revered, 

In  nakedness  when  they  appeared?" 

"  Think  you  that  God  who  clothes  the  flow'rs 

In  beauty  far  beyond  man's  powers, 


JOAN  OF  AStC.  87 

Who  clothes  the  fields,  the  trees  with  care, 
Who  clothes  the  songsters  of  the  air, 
Who  clothes  the  brute  with  glossy  coats, 
Who  clothes  the  fish  that  sinks  or  floats, 
Who  clothes  the  serpent's  winding  form, 
Who  clothes  the  low,  despised  worm, 
Who  clothes  the  insects  as  they  need, 
Who  clothes  man  gorgeously  indeed,  — 
Think  you  that  poverty  has  made 
My  God  so  poor  that  He  needs  aid 
To  clothe  the  Saints  as  He  desires 
Regardless  of  what  man  requires?" 
The  Bishop  struck  the  desk  a  blow  — 
"  No  speeches,  Maid  ;  say  yes  or  no  ! 
What  evidences  did  you  bring 
That  would  convince  your  crownless  king 
That  your  great  mission  was  Divine  ? 
Did  he  not  ask  you  for  a  sign  ?  " 
"  Ask  of  the  sun  that  lights  the  sky, 
Ask  of  the  moon  the  sun's  ally, 
Ask  of  the  stars  that  tell  no  tales, 
Ask  of  the  breezes  or  the  gales, 
Ask  of  the  fleecy  clouds  that  sail 
According  as  the  winds  prevail, 
Ask  of  the  birds  when  they  appear, 
Ask  of  God,  if  you  do  not  fear, 
Ask  of  the  winds  from  oft"  the  sea. 
Ask  of  them  all,  sir,  —  not  of  me. 


88  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

For  as  I  told  you  twice  before, 

I  will  not  say ;  ask  me  no  more." 

Cries  of  "  Burn  her  !  "  came  from  the  hall. 

The  Bishop  cried  :  "  Be  silent  all !  " 

"  Did  not  your  Voices,  Maid,  predict 

Escape  from  death  though  we  convict  ?  " 

"  That  question,  sir,  has  nought  to  do 

With  anything  that  concerns  you. 

But  there  is  One  and  only  One 

Who  knows  the  end.     His  will  be  done  !"        ; 

"  Were  you  not  asked  to  lay  aside 

Your  warlike  dress,  your  martial  pride, 

And  to  assume  the  modest  dress 

Of  graceful  woman  weaponless  ?  " 

"  I  was,  sir,  almost  ev'ry  day  : 

But  not  by  Him  whom  I  obey." 

"What  can  you  say  of  all  your  dead? 

Of  all  the  blood  which  you  have  shed? 

Of  all  the  pain,  of  all  the  woe 

Which  you  have  caused  with  each  death-blow?" 

"  Sir,  in  the  name  of  Him  I  fear, 

Before  whom  I  may  soon  appear, 

I  do  most  solemnly  declare, 

That  my  bright  swords  no  blood  stains  bear. 

I  led  the  army  to  save  France  "  — 

"  Kill  her  !  kill  her  !  and  with  her  lance  !  " 

The  rabble  shouted.    "  Let  her  feel 

The  cutting  pain  of  pointed  steel !  " 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  89 

"  Silence  !  I  say ; "  the  Bishop  cried, 

"  And  let  the  Maid  be  justified." 

"  Amid  the  battle's  awful  roar, 

Its  victims  drenched  with  their  own  gore, 

Why  looked  you,  Maid,  upon  your  ring 

As  though  it  were  some  magic  thing?" 

"  My  ring  the  name  of  Jesus  bears, 

That  name  which  lightens  all  my  cares. 

Around  it,  sir,  there  are  entwined 

The  sweetest  memories  of  mind  ; 

My  mother  gave  it  me  and  said  : 

4  Take  this,  and  after  I  am  dead, 

Think  of  your  mother,  whose  last  breath 

Taught  you  of  Jesus  and  of  death.' 

It  takes  me  back  to  childhood's  days, 

It  brings  up  all  my  childish  plays, 

It  shows  my  father's  fond  embrace 

As  I  looked  up  into  his  face 

And  asked  him  who  God  was,  and  why 

He  let  my  little  playmate  die. 

It  shows  me  childhood's  happiness, 

It  shows  me  home's  sweet  blessedness, 

O  sir !  that  ring  is  more  to  me 

Than  all  the  wealth  of  land  and  sea." 

"  Why  did  you  leave  your  home  to  fight 

For  one  who  rules,  but  not  by  right?" 

The  Bishop  sternly  asked  of  her. 

"  Because  I  was  commanded,  sir." 


90  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  And  did  you  not,  Maid,  disobey 

Your  parents,  when  you  ran  away 

From  home  and  friends,  to  undertake 

The  yoke  of  England's  king  to  break?" 

"  I  did,  sir,  as  I  fully  know  ; 

For  God  commanded  me  to  go." 

She  was  remanded  to  her  cell 

To  reappear  at  morning's  bell. 

The  next  day,  promptly  on  the  hour, 

The  bell  from  its  dark,  prison  tower, 

With  deep,  reverberating  sound 

That  filled  the  hills  and  vales  around, 

In  solemn  measures  called  once  more 

The  rabble  to  the  court-room  door. 

The  Bishop,  judges,  came  to  fill 

Their  places  and  then  all  was  still. 

Joan  appeared  with  smiling  face, 

And  bowing,  kneeling,  took  her  place. 

The  Bishop,  with  his  priestly  air, 

Addressed  the  Maid  with  nicest  care  : 

"  Will  you  allow  the  Holy  Church 

Your  deeds  and  actions,  Maid,  to  search?" 

(She  knew  the  Church  was  also  sold 

To  England  for  its  price  in  gold), 

And  lifting  up  her  youthful  head  : 

"  God  is  my  Judge  !  "  was  all  she  said. 

"  Do  you  refuse,  then,  to  permit 

The  Church  to  do  as  it  sees  fit?" 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  God  is  my  Judge  !  "  she  said  no  more ; 
Her  face  determination  bore. 
"  And  do  you  not,  then,  understand 
That  our  great  Church  has  full  command  ?  " 
"  God  is  my  Judge  !     I  do  His  will !  " 
She  said  no  more,  her  lips  were  still. 
"  Do  you  ignore  your  judges,  then?" 
"  God  is  my  Judge  !  "  she  said  again. 
"  But  by  the  gods  !  do  you  not  know 
That  we  can  order  your  death-blow?  " 
"  God  is  my  Judge  !  "     No  more,  no  less. 
She  seemed  in  perfect  peacefulness. 
"  Ah  !  shall  I  put  you  to  the  rack? 
Command  the  lash  upon  your  back? 
Shall  I  commit  you  to  the  stake, 
And  let  you  there  confession  make  ?  " 
"  God  is  my  Judge  !  "  she  seemed  as  glad 
And  undisturbed  as  he  was  mad. 
The  rabble  gave  an  awful  yell : 
"  Send  her  into  the  fires  of  Hell ! 
With  red-hot  steel  burn  out  her  eyes  ! 
Cut  out  the  cursed  tongue  that  lies  !  " 
"  God  is  my  Judge  !     God  will  defend, 
Though  you  torment  me  to  the  end  !" 
The  judges  knew  not  what  to  say, 
But  rising,  calmed  the  fierce  display. 
The  Bishop,  when  he  had  assumed 
His  dignity,  the  case  resumed. 


92  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  Will  you  submit,"  he  said,  with  hope, 
"  To  him  our  Holy  Father,  Pope  ?  " 
"  Conduct  me  to  the  Pope,  and  I 
Myself  to  him  will  justify. 
What  God,  sir,  has  revealed  to  me, 
Nor  pope,  nor  bishop,  nor  decree, 
Nor  powers  of  earth  can  now  compel 
My  trembling  lips  and  tongue  to  tell." 
"  Maid,  he  who  dares  to  break  his  vow 
And  spurn  the  Church,  as  you  do  now, 
Is  called  a  heretic  direct, 
y  The  burning  stake  he  must  expect." 

"  Although  I  should  behold  the  flame 
With  fiery  tongues  around  my  frame, 
I  would  not  now  reveal  one  word, 
Sir,  more  or  less  than  you  have  heard." 
"  Would  you  allow  to  interfere 
The  Gen'ral  Council,  were  that  here?  " 
"  What  is  that  council,  sir?  "  she  cried. 
A  monk  —  Isambard  —  then  replied  : 
"  It  is  a  council,  Maid,  composed 
Of  men  allied,  of  men  opposed. 
They  hear  the  case  and  then  decide 
According  as  the  laws  provide." 
The  Bishop  rose,  his  hands  he  wrung, 
"  By  God  ! "  he  said,  "monk,  hold  your  tongue  !" 
The  Maid  looked  earnestly  at  both, 
And  blushed  to  hear  the  Bishop's  oath. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  93 

Then  said  :   "  You  shall  not  hear  one  word, 

Sir,  more  or  less  than  you  have  heard." 

"  Then  will  we  put  you  to  the  rack 

Till  all  your  bones  and  sinews  crack." 

"  Sir,  tear  me  limb  from  limb,"  she  said  • 

"  Tear  my  frail  body  from  my  head  ! 

Give  me  the  lash  !  give  me  the  flame  ! 

Give  me  the  pain  Hell  would  not  claim  ! 

Burn  out  my  eyes  with  red-hot  steel ! 

Cut  out  my  tongue  !  my  blood  congeal ! 

Tear  out  my  beating  heart,  and  see 

It  quiver  in  its  agony  ! 

I  swear  before  my  God  above  ! 

Whom  I  adore,  I  worship,  love, 

Before  you  who  my  life  has  cursed, 

To  say  no  more,  sir  ;  do  your  worst ! " 

The  hall  was  filled  with  great  uproar. 

The  rabble  yelled,  and  cursed,  and  swore, 

They  gnashed  their  teeth,  they  clutched  their  hands, 

"  Choke  the  false  witch  !  "  were  their  demands. 

The  judges  threw  their  arms  about 

With  unbecoming,  angry  shout, 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  left  their  seats, 

And  rushed  out  madly  to  the  streets. 

The  soldiers  thrust  their  swords  at  her 

And  cried  :  "  Accursed  murderer  ! 

Chain  her  fast  to  the  nearest  stone 

And  let  the  crows  pick  ev'ry  bone  !  " 


94  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

The  Bishop's  voice  was  heard  o'er  all, 

Commanding  silence  in  the  hall : 

"  Into  her  dungeon,  jailor,  throw 

This  most  degraded  child  of  woe. 

Let  Famine  feed  her,  darkness  cheer, 

And  inch  by  inch  let  Death  appear  !  " 

The  jailor  seized  her  by  the  wrist, 

And  giving  it  the  prison  twist, 

"Come  on  !"  he  said.    She  screamed  with  pain. 

And  lifting  up  her  heavy  chain, 

"  O  sir  !  please  do  not  hurt  me  so  ! " 

She  said,  "  I  will,  sir,  I  will  go." 

As  step  by  step  she  walked  along, 

The  rabble  burst  forth  with  a  song : 

"  Joan  !  Joan  ! 

The  pride  of  France, 

Where  is  your  sword  ? 

Where  is  your  lance? 

Why  don't  you  pray  ? 

Why  don't  you  sing? 

Why  don't  you  praise 

Your  bastard  king ! 

Why  don't  you  call 

Your  voices  down 

To  help  you  fight 

Old  England's  crown  1 

What  will  we  do  ? 

What  will  we  do  ? 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  95 

To  entertain 

And  tickle  you? 

Burn  out  your  eyes  ! 

Cut  off  your  ears  ! 

Cut  out  your  tongue  ! 

With  knife  or  shears  ! 

Peel  off  your  skin 

And  let  the  crows 

Pick  off  your  flesh 

With  beaks  and  toes  ! 

And  hang  your  bones 

Upon  a  tree 

For  all  to  see, 

For  all  to  see ; 

We  all  agree, 

To  hang  your  bones 

Upon  a  tree 

For  all  to  see." 

Thus  ended  this  disgraceful  act 
In  that  dark  tragedy  of  fact. 
Her  testimony,  word  for  word, 
Had  been  recorded,  and  referred 
To  that  assembly  called  by  name 
The  Inquisition,  to  its  shame ; 
For  this  assembly  had  been  sold 
To  England,  and  was  thus  controlled. 
This  false  tribunal,  when  it  learned 
The  facts,  this  verdict  soon  returned : 


96  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

"  Ye  Bishop,  Judges,  hear  !  O  hear 

Our  verdicts  as  they  do  appear  ! 

Joan  is  found,  we  much  lament, 

To  be  the  Devil's  Instrument ! 

Undutiful  in  high  degree 

To  her  devoted  family  ! 

And  thirsting  for  the  blood,  the  life, 

Of  those  most  faithful  in  the  strife  ! " 

The  lawyers  whom  they  deigned  to  call 

Declared  her  innocent  of  all. 

Joan  was  dragged,  sick,  from  her  cell 

That  public  torture  might  compel 

Her  strong,  resisting  soul  to  make  • 

Confession  at  the  burning  stake. 

Two  scaffolds  in  a  churchyard  built, 

Served  as  the  place  to  test  her  guilt. 

Behind  the  church  this  graveyard  lay, 

A  picture  of  slow,  sad  decay  : 

The  graves  and  mossy  slabs  were  old, 

The  quaint  inscriptions  scarcely  told 

The  birth  and  death  of  those  whose  bones 

Lay  crumbling  underneath  the  stones. 

The  head-stones  stood  in  many  ways 

And  bore  the  marks  of  ancient  days. 

Some  hewn  from  granite  stood  upright, 

And  some  of  softer  make,  though  white, 

Stood  leaning,  as  if  half  inclined 

To  fall  upon  the  graves  behind  ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  97 

And  some  were  broken  ;  others  lay 

Full  length  upon  the  lifeless  clay ; 

And  in  their  midst  was  one  old  tomb, 

Where  darkness,  dampness,  silence,  gloom, 

Supremely  reigned  and  seemed  to  say  : 

"  Disturb  me  not  till  Judgment  Day." 

A  few  old  trees,  with  branches  bare, 

Stood  sighing  in  the  solemn  air, 

And  moss  and  vine  in  silent  strife 

Upon  their  lifeless  trunks  found  life. 

With  stones  and  bones  the  ground  was  strewn, 

The  flowers  had  gone,  the  birds  had  flown : 

The  soil  was  cold,  the  grass  was  dead, 

All  life,  save  moss  and  vine,  had  fled. 

The  scaffolds  were  prepared  with  care, 

In  honor  of  the  grand  affair. 

The  Cardinal,  the  Bishop,  Priest, 

As  if  invited  to  a  feast, 

And  judges,  doctors,  all  allied, 

The  larger  scaffold  occupied. 

The  other,  built  of  stone  and  wood, 

Near  by  and  facing  this  one  stood. 

The  church  bell  from  its  lonely  tower 

Tolled  solemnly  the  passing  hour ; 

The  sun  was  veiled  by  passing  cloud 

And  o'er  the  churchyard  threw  a  shroud ; 

A  solemn,  mournful  wind  arose, 

As  if  the  dead  could  not  repose ; 


98  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  then  the  sound  of  tramping  feet 

Came  from  the  long  and  narrow  street ; 

The  churchyard  gate  swung  open  wide, 

An  officer  appeared  as  guide. 

Great  multitudes  of  men  appeared, 

And  as  they  saw  the  scaffolds  cheered. 

The  old,  the  young,  the  blind,  the  lame, 

With  sticks  and  clubs  as  weapons,  came, 

The  air  was  full  of  shout  and  song, 

Which  came  from  this  disgraceful  throng ; 

They  beat  the  gravestones  with  their  sticks, 

And  danced  and  yelled  like  lunatics. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  shouts  increased  : 

"  Here  comes  the  Witch  !     Prepare  the  feast ! " 

They  swung  their  clubs,  they  clawed  the  air, 

They  beat  their  breasts,  and  tore  their  hair  : 

"  Accursed  Witch  !  begin  your  prayer, 

Call  down  your  Voices  from  the  air, 

We  '11  tear  your  very  heartstrings  out ! 

Down  on  your  knees  and  be  devout ! 

Ho  !  Brothers,  sing  : 

O  Maid  !  O  Maid ! 

What  will  we  do 

To  entertain 

And  tickle  you? 

Burn  out  your  eyes  ! 

Cut  off  your  ears  ! 

Cut  out  your  tongue 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

With  knife  or  shears  ! 
Peel  off  your  skin 
And  let  the  crows 
Pick  off  your  flesh 
With  beaks  and  toes  ! 
And  hang  your  bones 
Upon  a  tree 
For  all  to  see  ! 
For  all  to  see  ! 
We  all  agree 
To  hang  your  bones 
Upon  a  tree 
For  all  to  see  !  " 

Joan  appeared  with  shrunken  face, 

With  glassy  eyes,  with  easy  grace, 

With  quiv'ring  lips,  with  puny  hands 

Together  bound  by  iron  bands, 

With  massive  chains  around  her  waist, 

With  fetters  on  her  ankles  placed. 

They  bore  her  to  the  scaffold  which 

Was  thus  inscribed :  JOAN  THE  WITCH. 

They  chained  her  firmly  to  the  stake, 

And  left  her  there  her  peace  to  make. 

She  stood  alone,  she  shook  with  fears, 

Her  head  was  bowed,  her  eyes  in  tears, 

Her  glossy,  long,  disheveled  hair 

Waved  beautifully  in  the  air ; 


IOO  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  sighed,  she  sobbed,  she  groaned,  she  wept, 

And  utter  silence  then  she  kept. 

And  thus  she  stood ;  but  nothing  said, 

Until  at  last  she  raised  her  head  : 

"  Have  mercy,  God  ! "  she  said  no  more, 

Her  agony  in  silence  bore. 

The  Bishop,  at  this  dreadful  sight, 

Sat  motionless ;  his  face  was  white, 

He  trembled,  shook  and  tried  to  speak, 

His  voice  was  broken,  trembling,  weak. 

The  executioner  appears, 

The  Bishop  melted  into  tears. 

The  rabble  solemn  silence  kept, 

And  some  who  came  to  kill  her  wept. 

And  as  she  stood  in  silence  there, 

So  innocent,  so  pure  and  fair, 

So  like  an  angel  from  the  skies, 

They  turned  away  their  weeping  eyes. 

Hate  changed  to  pity.     Pity  cried  : 

"  Oh  !  let  the  Maid  be  justified  ! " 

There  are  times  when  the  basest  mind 

F^els  sorrow  keenly  and  is  kind. 

A  Preacher  then  tried  to  persuade 

Joan  to  yield  and  death  evade  ; 

And  thinking  to  compel  her  now 

Her  king  and  France  to  disavow, 

In  words  which  seemed  for  her  defence 

He  spoke  with  solemn  eloquence  : 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  IOI 

"  Alas  !  'thou  noble  House  of  France  I " 

He  said,  and  cast  a  with'ring  glance, 

"  How  hast  thou  fallen  so  from  grace 

As  to  acknowledge  one  so  base? 

Why  hast  thou  promised  to  obey 

A  king,  a  heretic,  this  day? 

Yes,  Joan,  't  is  to  thee  I  swear 

Charles  is  a  heretic  —  beware ! " 

Joan,  though  shamefully  abused, 

Spoke  not  till  he  her  king  accused ; 

Then,  interrupting  him,  replied 

With  voice  defiant,  dignified  : 

"  Although  in  flames,  sir,  I  am  cast, 

Sir,  though  this  moment  be  my  last, 

Sir,  though  my  God  the  veil  withdraws, 

Sir,  though  I  hear  Hell's  gnashing  jaws, 

I  swear,  here,  as  I  only  can, 

That  my  king  is  a  Christian  man  ; 

The  church  he  loves,  with  it  complies, 

Who  calls  him  Heretic,  sir,  lies  ! " 

"  O,  stop  her  mouth  !  "  the  Bishop  cried; 

"  Let  not  her  tongue  be  gratified  ! " 

A  recantation  then  he  read 

In  which  he  offered  her  instead 

Of  death,  imprisonment  for  life. 

The  Bishop's  conscience  was  at  strife. 

He  urged  her  quickly  to  comply 

With  this,  nor  gave  the  reason  why. 


102  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

And  many  by  remorse  attacked 

Entreated  her  to  sign  the  act, 

Which  only  asked  her  to  confess 

Her  ignorance  —  no  more  —  no  less. 

She  stood  a  moment  lost  in  thought, 

Then  said  :  "  I  will ;  let  it  be  brought !  " 

The  notary  gave  her  a  pen 

To  sign  the  act  that  saved  her,  when 

She  blushed,  she  smiled,  she  hung  her  head ; 

"  I  can  not  read  or  write,"  she  said. 

With  his  assistance  then  she  traced 

A  circle,  and  within  it  placed 

A  cross,  which  signified  her  name, 

And  rescued  her  from  rack  or  flame. 

Her  pen  had  scarcely  left  the  page — 

The  mob  burst  forth  with  awful  rage. 

Revenge  had  kindled  such  a  fire 

That  nothing  but  her  fun'ral  pyre 

Could  satisfy  the  mad  demands 

Which  they  now  threatened  with  their  hands. 

Around  the  Bishop's  stand  the  crowd 

With  swinging  clubs,  and  curses  loud, 

Assembled  to  demand  the  life 

Of  her  by  rack,  or  stake,  or  knife. 

And  thus  the  mob  with  fiery  eyes, 

Its  awful  anger  gratifies. 

Some  hurl  upon  the  stand  their  sticks ; 

Some  hurl  their  clubs,  some  knives,  some  bricks  ; 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  IO3 

Some  hurl  the  broken,  old  gravestones, 

Some  hurl  the  dead  men's  whitened  bones. 

They  cried  :  "  Ye  miserable  priests  ! 

Ye  coward  judges  !  villains  !  beasts  ! 

This  day  your  king  ye  have  betrayed  ! 

This  day  thus  shall  ye  be  repaid  !  " 

The  Bishop  to  escape  the  blows 

Excited,  frightened,  quickly  rose 

And  said  :  "  O  men  !  allay  your  thirst ! 

Her  sentence  soon  shall  be  reversed  !" 

Controlled  by  no  enacted  laws 

Their  anger  now  turned  to  applause. 

They  cheered  the  Bishop,  danced,  and  sang, 

The  very  air  with  praises  rang. 

The  Maid  stood  weeping  at  the  stake. 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  thus  she  spake  : 

"  Have  mercy,  Father  !     It  is  done. 

Forsake  me  not  through  Christ  Thy  Son  !  " 

Back  to  her  cell  they  bore  her  then 

Amid  the  scoffs  and  sneers  of  men  ; 

There  to  await  the  final  day 

When  God  would  take  her  soul  away. 

The  Bishop  saw  that  she  must  die 

His  party's  hate  to  satisfy  ; 

And  so  the  burning  stake  he  chose 

The  awful  tragedy  to  close. 

The  smiling  month  of  May  had  come. 

The  air  was  filled  with  busy  hum 


104  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Of  bees,  that  sought  the  sweetest  flow'rs 

That  grew  in  Nature's  lovely  bow'rs. 

The  birds  returned  —  a  happy  throng  — 

To  cheer  the  hills  and  vales  with  song. 

The  sweet  Spring  showers,  the  bright  warm  sun, 

Their  work  of  mystery  had  done. 

The  grass  was  green,  the  skies  were  blue, 

The  air  was  clear,  the  clouds  were  few. 

The  playful  lambs  skipped  o'er  the  hills 

And  sought  the  cooling,  shady  rills. 

The  sleepy  cows,  at  close  of  day, 

Lay  down  and  watched  their  young  ones  play. 

The  gently  breathing  Summer's  breeze 

Played  softly  in  the  leafy  trees. 

The  sunlight,  and  the  sparkling  dew, 

Each  morn  the  buds  and  flow'rs  renew ; 

While  evening  lulled  them  all  to  sleep 

And  set  the  stars  a  watch  to  keep. 

All  Nature  had  received  new  birth. 

The  resurrection  type  of  Earth. 

The  year's  bright  morn  was  almost  passed : 

For  Spring  was  breathing  now  her  last. 

A  few  hours  more  and  all  would  be 

Recorded  in  her  history. 

Her  hot  successor's  sultry  breath 

Poured  in  to  hasten  on  her  death. 

O  Spring  !  thy  fairest,  sweetest  hours 

Must  go  and  leave  behind  the  flow'rs. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  105 

But  hold  !     Another  morn  must  go  — 
A  morn  of  life,  a  morn  of  woe. 
Wait,  gentle  Spring  !     In  kindness  wait ! 
For  Death  will  furnish  thee  a  mate,  — 
That  mate,  as  sweet  as  thou  art  mild, 
Is  Joan  of  Arc,  the  Maid,  the  child. 
Spring  looked  around,  her  beauty  saw 
And  sighed  at  Nature's  cruel  law. 
It  was  the  eve  before  her  death 
That  Joan  sat,  with  sobbing  breath, 
Within  her  dungeon-cell  so  dark 
Communing  with  her  God ;  and  hark  ! 
A  robin  perched  upon  a  tree 
Was  pouring  forth  sad  melody. 
And  through  the  massive  walls  of  stone 
She  could  just  hear  the  robin's  moan. 
As  if  some  one  had  robbed  her  nest 
The  bird  its  saddest  notes  expressed. 
Joan  sat  with  attentive  ear 
And  tried  its  plaintive  song  to  hear. 
"  Sweet  bird,"  she  said,  "  for  thee  I  feel. 
Would  that  thy  sorrow  I  could  heal ! 
God  made  thee  to  be  gay  and  free 
Why  dost  thou  show  such  misery  ? 
Has  some  one  robbed  thee  of  a  home 
And  left  thee  in  strange  fields  to  roam? 
Thy  young  has  some  one  from  thee  torn 
And  left  thee  all  alone  to  mourn? 


106  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Art  thou  without  a  mate  to  sing 

The  early  morning-song  of  Spring? 

Alas  !  dear  creature,  be  not  sad  ! 

For  thou  art  good  !     Thou  cans't  be  bad  ! 

Nor  sin  can  thy  sweet  soul  compel 

To  love  high  Heav'n,  or  fear  dark  Hell. 

I  'd  give  the  world  if  I  could  be 

As  free  from  sin  as  thou  art  free  ! 

Sweet  bird,  to-morrow  when  you  sing, 

Your  sweet  companions  with  you  bring  ! 

And  sing  your  brightest,  sweetest  lay 

And  drive  my  sorrow  all  away. 

Come,  pretty  birds,  and  sing  to  me 

To-morrow  evening  from  the  tree  ! 

But  no  !     To-morrow  I  must  die. 

Sweet  bird,  good-bye  !     A  sweet  good-bye  ! 

Sweet  music  I  shall  hear  no  more 

Until  upon  that  brighter  shore 

I  stand,  and  hear  the  angels  sing : 

Praise  God  the  Father  !     God  the  King  ! " 

The  robin  ceased  and  took  its  flight. 

"Sweet bird,"  she  said,  "good-night !  good-night !" 

There  was  a  pause,  a  silent  spell 

And  then  she  said  her  last  Farewell : 

"  My  Country  and  my  Country's  king  ! 

Let  Angels  of  your  praises  sing ! 

Ye  rocks  and  streams  of  France  —  Farewell ! 

Ye  sunny  hills  and  vales  —  Farew.ell ! 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

Ye  sun  and  moon  !     Ye  stars  of  night ! 

Ye  fleecy  clouds  !     Ye  skies  so  bright ! 

Ye  happy  flocks  !     Ye  grazing  herds  ! 

Ye  pretty  flow'rs  !     Ye  singing  birds  ! 

Ye  pastures  green  !     Ye  waters  sweet ! 

Ye  shady  woods  where  sylvans  meet ! 

Ye  grottoes,  lakes,  and  secret  dell ! 

I  loved  you  all !  alas  !     Farewell ! 

O  King  !  whose  noble  Christian  name 

Adorns  a  brighter  page  than  Fame, 

For  thee  I  fought !     For  thee  I  die  ! 

O  King  !  most  noble  King,  good-bye  ! 

Ye  sons  of  France  !     Ye  daughters  fair ! 

Ye  churches  calling  men  to  prayer  ! 

Ye  brave,  ye  loyal,  valiant  men  ! 

We  part  and  shall'  not  meet  again  ! 

God  grant  that  bloody  war  may  cease  ! 

God  grant  you  everlasting  peace  ! 

God  bless  you  !    Keep  you  !    With  you  dwell ! 

Beloved  France  and  King  —  Farewell ! " 

Then  sobbing,  sleep  o'erheard  her  cries 

And  for  the  last  time  closed  her  eyes. 

The  day  of  execution  came  — 

That  day  of  horror,  day  of  shame. 

The  solemn,  doleful  prison  bell 

In  earnest  tolled  a  parting  knell. 

Joan  attired  in  woman's  dress 

Left  the  dark  cell  with  cheerfulness. 


108  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

They  placed  her  on  the  fatal  cart 

Prepared  to  feel  death's  cruel  dart, 

Beside  her,  her  confessor  rode 

To  do  the  duty  which  he  owed. 

The  monk  Isambard,  tender,  kind, 

With  measured  footsteps  walked  behind. 

No  one  was  there  whom  she  preferred, 

No  one  to  speak  a  loving  word, 

No  one  to  drive  away  the  tear, 

No  one  to  say  :  "  Be  of  good  cheer." 

No  one  her  final  hour  to  bless, 

No  one  to  kiss  her  or  caress, 

No  one  to  draw  a  parting  sigh 

No  one  to  say  a  sweet  good-bye. 

At  last  she  reached  the  journey's  end 

She  saw  the  stake  that  was  to  send 

Her  pure,  her  innocent,  sweet  soul 

Beyond  the  reach  of  man's  control. 

The  Bishop,  judges,  mob  she  saw 

Assembled  to  defy  all  law. 

She  was  about  to  leave  the  cart  — 

The  preacher  said  :  "  In  peace  depart ! 

The  church  can  do  no  more  —  good-bye  !" 

She  was  alone,  alone  to  die. 

She  knelt :  she  clasped  her  hands,  and  there 

Poured  forth  her  final  earthly  prayer  : 

"  Into  thy  hands,  O  God,  I  come, 

So  sinful,  weak,  so  burdensome. 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  109 

Receive  me,  Father,  if  thou  wilt 

And  wash  away  my  sin  and  guilt ! 

O,  grant  me  Thy  preserving  pow'r, 

Protect  me  at  this  awful  hour  ! 

And  when  my  eyelids  close  in  death, 

And  when  I  draw  my  dying  breath, 

And  when  my  beating  heart  shall  cease, 

O,  grant  me  everlasting  peace  ! 

Dear  Father  !  those  by  whom  I  die, 

Forgive  them  all  !  all  sanctify  ! 

And  as  Death  takes  them  one  by  one, 

Oh  !  may  they  hear  from  Thee  :  'Well  done  1* 

My  country,  Father,  still  defend  ! 

And  to  its  king  such  wisdom  send 

That  Peace,  Prosperity,  and  Love 

May  reign  till  all  are  saved  above. 

Farewell  to  all !  I  say  again, 

Farewell,  forevermore.     Amen  ! " 

She  then  arose  and  took  her  place 

Upon  the  scaffold,  death  to  face. 

They  chained  her  to  the  stake  and  fled. 

"  Can  I  not  have  a  cross  ?  "  she  said  ; 

No  one  this  last  request  would  heed  : 

But  hissed  her.     Oh  !  accursed  deed  ! 

At  last  one  Christian  act  was  done. 

A  man,  of  dry  twigs,  made  her  one  ; 

"  O,  thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  she  said, 

As  tears  of  gratitude  she  shed. 


HO  JOAN  OF  ARC. 

She  kissed  the  cross,  she  raised  her  head : 

"  I  am  prepared  to  die  !  "  she  said. 

The  spark  was  struck,  the  crackling  flame 

Up  from  the  fagots  fiercely  came. 

Upon  the  multitude  she  gazed, 

Her  hands  to  Heaven  then  she  raised  : 

"  O  Rouen  !     'T  is  my  dying  breath, 

Thou  shalt  atone  for  this  —  my  death  !  " 

The  Bishop  hearing  her  drew  near 

His  face  as  white  as  death  with  fear. 

"Bishop,"  she  said,  "  through  you  I  die. 

God  bless  you,  sir !    Good-bye  !  good-bye." 

For  one  short  moment  all  was  still, 

And  tears  the  rabble's  eyes  would  fill. 

But  hush  !  a  cry  of  deep  despair  ! 

The  flames  have  caught  her  dress  and  hair, 

"Water  !  water  !  "  her  instinct  cried. 

"Mother  !  Mother !"  no  voice  replied. 

Her  head  fell  forward  on  her  breast, 

"  Jesus  ! "  she  sighed  and  was  at  rest. 

A  moment  passed  and  all  was  o'er, 

Joan  of  Arc  was  now  no  more. 

They  threw  her  ashes  in  the  Seine, 

That  trace  of  her  might  not  remain. 

Into  that  world  of  endless  bliss 

Beyond  death's  dreadful,  dark  abyss, 

Beyond  the  torture  and  despair 

Of  mortal  persecution,  there 


JOAN  OF  ARC.  Ill 

To  meet  the  blessed  saints  of  Him 

The  Prince  of  Seraphs,  Cherubim, 

To  enter  that  abode  of  peace 

Where  sorrow,  woe,  forever  cease, 

And  with  the  choruses  to  sing : 

"Praise  God  the  Father,  God  the  King  1" 

The  noblest  soul  of  France  had  fled 

In  splendid  triumph  o'er  the  dead. 

Deep  on  her  stone  should  be  engraved  : 

"For  France  she  died,  but  France  she  saved." 


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